Corners and Crosswalks
by Annie Blythe
Summary: Mid-season three, Sam and Andy break up. The road to normal is anything but...
1. You, My Love, Are Gone

A/N: Hey guys! As many of you well know, I'm rather fond of the fluffy oneshot. This time, however, I'm trying something a little different... Fair warning: The angst is heightened and doesn't resolve immediately. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, please feel free to wait a few days until the entire story is posted. I'll be alternating between Sam and Andy's POV, so hopefully you'll get a taste of both sides as the story unfolds.

Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.

DISCLAIMER: I neither own _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Ingrid Michaelson. (See chapter title.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: [my bones are shifting in my skin, and you, my love, are gone]<strong>

* * *

><p>It's a tank top that does him in.<p>

He finds it halfway through week two, mixed in with clothes from his hamper as he's filling the washer. It's thin and black, the kind she wears on hot summer days underneath her uniform. He's seen her slip it on a fair number of occasions; knows the narrow ribbing and fraying hem like he knows his first name.

(He may have helped remove it a time or two.)

He fingers the material lightly, a pithy indulgence to memory, before clenching a hard fist. Balls up the shirt and tosses it into the corner of the room, tries not to notice it slide down the wall with a muffled _thump. _It lands somewhere between the end table and the wall, on the far side of the couch. The space is narrow and dark, and he hopes his brain buys a goddamn clue. Maybe the rest of his body can follow suit and move forward, the way coppers do.

He doesn't want to look at it. Feel it. Return it.

(There's a laughable premise. Him, slipping into the locker room, folded shirt in tow. _Hey, McNally, want your top back? Go on, take my heart with it, no big deal_.)

He curses his olfactory senses, struggling to suppress the mental associations.

Her shampoo, the smell of her hair when he threads a hand through it. Peppermint chapstick that burns his lips, tingly aftershocks when she pulls (_pulled_) his mouth hard against hers. The lavender dryer sheets she uses and the way the scent lingers on her clothes.

(God, he really hates her clothes.)

His nerves are alight, blood pumping as he flexes his fingers, staring at his now-empty hand. He's been careful about restricting emotion, save for a dose of acerbic wit in the cruiser. Misery is the company he's been keeping for eleven days now, empty apartment and an empty, hollow ache in his chest. He catalogues the pain like he would for a physical injury, figures if he ignores it long enough, the sensation will dull.

He gives up on the laundry, resigned to do wash another day. For a seemingly harmless garment, the tank managed to wreak considerable havoc in a matter of minutes.

He's spent nearly two weeks avoiding the Penny and the liquor store, because he refuses to be _that_ guy. Drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a tumbler, wasting away on a faux-wood barstool.

Camel's back? Meet the proverbial straw.

It's soft and faded and smells like _her_, and it tears something inside of him, fresh and violent.

He pours himself 101-proof that night.

* * *

><p>The first morning without her, he wakes, sore all over, feeling every bit his age. Like he's absorbed the hit of the baton without the protective gear.<p>

He makes too much coffee and ends up pouring the whole pot down the sink, annoyed.

His body is on autopilot, which is how he finds himself on her street, half a kilometer away from the toilet factory before he realizes…

(Mornings when she's not with him, he idles by the entrance to the condo complex. Leans against the hood of the truck, two travel mugs in hand. Always shoots her a text when he's five minutes out, _Hurry up, copper. Crooks don't catch themselves.)_

He slams on the brakes sharply, grateful for the absence of traffic this morning. Three point turn later, he's en route to the barn, shaken but not otherwise affected.

He pretends, anyway.

* * *

><p>She avoids him that first week, disappearing from parade in the blink of an eye. He doesn't think Nash knows yet, and he's a little surprised. He imagines she'd be running interference if she knew, filling seats at parade and scheduling trips to the coffee kiosk. The two of them have this girl code that by all accounts is its own TPS division, taking serve and protect to new heights.<p>

The distance isn't obvious, not to the casual observer. After Frank's stern, post-suspension warning, they've kept everything professional at the barn. Sam Swarek: Straight as an arrow, clean as a whistle, rulebook recitations fresh in his mind. He studiously avoids female locker rooms, and aside from a few furtive winks and casual touches, he keeps his hands to himself.

(Well. Except for one late night in booking, desk quiet like all of Toronto was hibernating. Andy had protested for show more than anything, but the way she had smiled when he got his arms around her…)

He tries not to think about that night. Takes a sip from his hours-old cup of coffee and nearly chokes.

(He would be lying if he said he didn't miss their work partnership after it was disbanded. He would also be lying if he said the after-hours trade-off wasn't worth it.)

His hand crumples around the paper cup before he pitches it into the garbage, head aching like he's crashed into something solid and on a slow mend.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly, it's Noelle, not Oliver, who notices first.<p>

Her interest is… Unexpected.

She's always had a finely-tuned bullshit detector, but _baby on board_ has heightened her senses like a superpower. He figures all mothers unlock the code eventually, the uncanny ability to weed out lies in truth and anticipate omission. Noelle's ahead of the class, like every Academy lesson ever.

The first day (post-tank top _incident_), she does a song and dance about how she's been cooped up at the desk, desperate for some air and decent company, eager green rookies working her last nerve. She invites him to lunch, cool and casual. He declines.

The second day she claims she has a craving for rice noodles; knows that he'll eat Pad Thai 'til kingdom come. She asks if he wants to go. He declines again.

The third day there's no beating around the bush. A furious whisper across the desk is enough, _So help me, Swarek, I haven't said a word to anyone – _a pointed look at Best's office_ – but you better believe I'll flip your ass if you turn me down again."_

So.

That's that.

"How long?" she asks, squashed into a corner booth of a Jewish delicatessen, fingers wrapped firmly around a cup of decaf coffee.

"Leave it, Williams."

"How long?"

"What do you wanna hear?" he snaps, irritated. "I'm fine, alright?"

"Fine, really?" she replies with an arch of an eyebrow, all traces of courtesy gone. "'Cuz you look like shit, and pretty soon, I'm not gonna be the only one to sniff you out."

"Yeah, well..." He says dully, staring at the pastrami and rye on his plate, appetite gone like…

(Like she's _gone_, for god's sake.)

"Sam," she says softly, moved by the pain in his eyes. "Look, we've known each other for years…"

"Noelle," he warns, much more roughly than he intends. "I can't, alright? _I can't_."

She studies him for a long moment, her gaze lingering on his eyes before noting the tense set of his shoulders.

"Alright," she says, exhaling. "I'm not going to tell you that you have to talk to me, but Sam... You gotta talk to somebody. Oliver would be all over this shit if Zoe didn't have mono, you know that."

Sam nods infinitesimally, relieved at the redirection of the conversation.

"You're not undercover anymore," she finishes, her words inexplicably gentle despite her firm tone. Reaching for the check, she meets his gaze steadily. "You don't have to hide every honest feeling you have."

* * *

><p>The second week is worse than the first.<p>

The first week he wakes up, and he has a moment of hope. Disoriented, he scrubs a hand across his jaw while his eyes sweep the room. Searches the bed, and when she's not there, wonders.

Gone for a run? Making coffee in the kitchen? Filching his razor, _again_?

Those brief seconds of sleepiness or ignorance or forgetfulness…

They're almost worth the pain of realization.

The second week, hope abandons him. He wakes up and knows immediately. Knows she's gone, knows she isn't coming back. Reality knocks him around like a prizefighter in the ring, and he can't find it in himself to fight back.

Here's the thing: He's been through break-ups before. Break-ups where the flame extinguished quietly in the night, and they parted with well-wishes for one another. Break-ups where the burn was explosive, but the company wasn't meant to last.

In his heart, he's always been tethered to the streets. For better and worse, richer and – usually – poorer, in sickness and in health. Most women can't handle his breed of commitment, don't want to play second fiddle to the badge, and he gets that, he does. He's been the _dumper _and the _dumpee_, but never like this. _Never_ like...

Her eyes haunt him at night.

He remembers, and it breaks him. The shadow of her smile. The ghost of a warm arm, draped across his chest. The void of her laugh and her skin and the bossy toss of her head.

(He feels too damn much.)

* * *

><p>It was dumb. He was dumb. Categorically, catastrophically dumb. Left-the-gun, split-from-the-group, went-into-the-decrepit-basement-alone kind of dumb.<p>

They've fought before. Arguments prompted by stupid things like wet grounds in the coffee filter and the insistent _rrrring_ of the alarm clock. Exacerbated by not-so-stupid things like job safety and split-second protocol in the field.

If they're good at fighting, they're even better at making up. He's not sure why it's different this time.

(He knows why it's different, actually.)

More on the line. _Everything_ on the line, for the love of–

He knows what the breaking point was.

* * *

><p><em>Her stance widens, and she folds her arms across her chest defensively. "What do you mean, <em>consider my options?_ You want me to pursue this training?"_

"_I'm just saying, don't blow if off like a damn fool. Peck pulling you aside is a big deal. That's it, alright? _That's it_."_

"_Don't lie to me; don't you fu-" She breaks off, her voice wavering. Her fists clench angrily at her sides. "You've been distant all week, withdrawing and retreating, and you don't have the decency to tell me _**why**_."_

"Christ_, Andy, not everything's about –"_

"_I'm not stupid, okay?" she interrupts, her finger jabbing at the air by his chest. "Don't think I haven't seen it in your eyes. The expectancy."_

_He throws his hands up in the air, flummoxed. "How are you turning this on _**me**?_ I'm asking you to think about your long-term goals, what you want to accomplish. Most people would say that's what a _supportive_ boyfriend does, for god's sake."_

_She shakes her head minutely, pressing her lips together in a tight line. "You think I'm going to run, right? You've been _waiting _for it. After all this time, you don't trust me. You don't believe me when I say I _chose _you. I _want_ you." _

_She stares at him, her eyes hard. "And now you're giving me an out as some sort of skewed self-defense mechanism."_

"_That's not fair," he interjects, his voice dangerously low. "You're young, and you have all the opportunities in the world, and you can't limit yourself…"_

"_Because I'm young and the world is my oyster?" she says angrily. "So, let me see if I have this straight: You _want_ what's best for me, and you think _**you know**_ what's best for me? And that's why you're pulling away?" _

_She sucks in a breath of air violently. "Newsflash, Sam: You're not a martyr, and this isn't some valiant display of nobility. To say _**I can't limit myself**_, as if you're this hindrance…"_

"_I know how you advance on this career path," he answers roughly. "I know what the white shirts look for, Andy. I know what task forces want, and if you're serious about going somewhere..."_

"_It's selfish. It's selfish and a damn cop-out. Couples make decisions together. One party doesn't decide what's best, and if you can't understand that…"_

_She cuts off, looking at him almost pityingly. "Maybe we shouldn't be together."_

_He stares at her for a long moment, shocked. He wonders, briefly, how a discussion about long-term plans escalated into this. He knows he's been a little reticent, but..._

"_So where does this leave us?" he hears himself ask, his voice careful and clipped._

"_I don't know," she replies distantly, a humorless chuckle escaping her mouth. "I have _no _idea."_

_Her tone is flat, and he sees the dejection in her eyes. She's read him better than he thought she would, and it's turned everything familiar on an axis, an irreversible tilt. He doesn't want her to let opportunity float by, doesn't want to be in the way of her advancement, but this kind of reaction... _

"_I need to go for a drive," he says finally, pushing past her. "Clear my head."_

"_Fine," she mutters. Then, in a louder voice, "That's _fine_. You're not the first person to walk out on me when the going gets tough." _

_He stills by the doorway, hand clenching around his car keys. He catches a glimpse of her in the shadow of the hallway light. Her eyes are flashing, and her stance is aggressive. _

_For a moment, he thinks about turning around, asking if they can cut the bullshit. They know each other too well; can lodge the hatchet where it hurts. If he were smarter, he would have stopped it then and there, pulled her close and talked to her, made her realize just how important she is to him..._

He should have known better than to leave her alone in his house. By the time he got back, she had cleared out.

Cleared out and didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Shaw clocks in early, Monday of week three. Squeezes his shoulder while he's crouched on the locker room bench, tying his boots. There's a double-double in his hand, the usual peace offering after a particularly brutal sweep at the poker table. He pops open a Tupperware full of Zoe's blondie bars, Sam's go-to request after a long UC absence. Takes a bite before dropping the container next to Sam.<p>

So.

Oliver knows.

* * *

><p>No regrets, that's how he's always lived. He met her, and something changed.<p>

The footnote on his biography reads a little differently.

Sam Swarek.

Knows regret.


	2. Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

A/N: You guys are awesome! Thank you for having faith in me. The words of encouragement and support have been incredibly motivating. To those who asked, this will be a short story... I'm anticipating five chapters. Thanks to all reluctant readers - and especially reviewers - for sticking it out. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Time for Andy...

DISCLAIMER: I neither own _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Florence + the Machine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: [regrets collect like old friends, here to relive your darkest moments]<strong>

* * *

><p>That first morning, she opens the fridge to find chicken marinating.<p>

It's become a private joke between them, a mantra they've both repeated with teasing smiles. _"I cook, I clean, I'm good with tools..." _

(She was keen on repeating the 'tools' part with a waggle of her eyebrows. He would make a show of rolling his eyes, but he always wore the faintest trace of a grin...)

His presentation is always neat. Plastic wrap stretched tightly across the Pyrex pan, herbs and Greek medley infusing the breast so he could grill later. He'd bought the boneless chicken, knowing her preference.

(Sometimes she hates it. The thoughtfulness. Like right now.)

She eyes it for a moment, swallowing against the lump of emotion building steadily in her throat. It's _chicken_, for god's sake. She shouldn't get all worked up over a damn piece of fillet.

_Pull yourself together, McNally_.

She dumps it in the garbage, ties the bag off and leaves it by the door. Rinses the Pyrex, and drops heavily onto a kitchen chair. She plans to walk the bag out to the dumpster before she catches the bus. Slam the lid for good measure.

She traces the ring of her coffee mug. She feels tired and restless, the familiar ache from her teenage years, mornings after her dad went on a bender.

(She woke to a cold bed this morning. Burned her hand on the stove, and when she hopped in the shower, hot water was wishful thinking.)

The universe has her number. Go figure.

It's strange and unfamiliar, this morning routine. She's never had to leave quite so early before, two transfers on a bus before she hits 15 Division. She's so focused on _avoidance_ at work - sneaking into the barn, timing her entrance into Parade - she's unprepared for what greets her when she returns to her apartment.

In her rush out the door this morning, she forgot to take the trash bag with her.

A wave of nausea hits her with the force of a freight train: The gut reaction, that sweeping queasiness, is prompted by more than just the smell of raw chicken. Her shoulders shake, and she bites her lip until she draws blood.

(He_ likes_ being domestic, that's the thing. One of those surprising quirks she learned in the early stages, those weeks following suspension when everything was new. She hadn't realized how nice it was to have someone take care of you like that. How a simple thing like dinner could stay with you...)

It's raining outside, but that doesn't stop her from opening every damn window, trying to air the place out. The weather is suited to her mood, all things considered.

She slides to the kitchen floor, one hand pressed to her forehead, unable to keep the tears at bay.

* * *

><p>She keeps her head down and her mouth shut all week.<p>

Traci may be her best friend, but she's two vodka tonics away from letting it slip to the boys. She'd rather not make the rounds on the division gossip circuit, and – unfortunately – Dov and Chris are the megaphone and the mouthpiece, respectively.

She might not be able to avoid the chatter altogether, but she'll certainly work to delay it.

She spends the weekend burrowed underneath her covers. She feels weak and needy, and it's not a feeling she relishes. Like the patchwork of her life is slowly unraveling, and she can't do anything to stop it. Like someone scraped out her insides, but with a butter knife and plastic spoon: The result is hackneyed at best.

She slumps onto her desk, keenly aware of Noelle's penetrating gaze. Noelle has been eyeing her suspiciously all week, and until now, Andy's been careful to maintain appearances. Calm, assured control. Calculated visits to the kiosk, smiles and jokes in familiar, routine patterns. It's easier, now that Traci has made detective. She lets her talk about Leo and Jerry, nods attentively and deflects questions.

(If she tries hard enough, maybe that façade will stick.)

It's weirdly reminiscent of high school. Her life is a CD on perpetual repeat, the song played so many times over, it skips before the chorus. She's serenaded by the unsteady, stilted rhythm, memories of forced smiles and calm explanations.

(Why her dad didn't make it to back-to-school night or the district championship basketball game. Why she did the grocery shopping. Why she worked so damn hard for a scholarship to a decent college. _Nothing to see here, folks. Everything is on the up-and-up. Keep the traffic steady and moving_.)

She's a better actress than people give her credit for, john sweeps aside.

She rubs her temples, trying to focus on paperwork as the words swim before her eyes. Sighing, she sinks back into her chair and weighs the merits of taking a few personal days. Obliquely, she knows that will spur investigation, more questions. She doesn't want to give the impression that she's the type to run away from her problems, anyway.

She can hear it now.

_Andy McNally... Once a runner, always a runner._

(The other reason she hasn't said anything? There's a small part of her that hopes Sam will seek her out. Maybe they can forget this ever happened.)

* * *

><p>Gail corners her at the beginning of week two.<p>

It's more vague observation than inquisition. She employs that bored, bureaucratic tone Andy has come to associate with Pecks in white shirts.

"Look, I'm not going to say anything if that's what you're worried about," she says blandly, making a show of examining her nails in the cruiser. "Although, if I didn't catch you by the bus stop, I would ask if you've been living out of a car. You've, uh. Looked better."

"Thanks, Gail," she mutters, narrowing her eyes and focusing on the road ahead.

(One thing you don't do with Pecks? Feign surprise.)

"Plus," Gail says, wrinkling her nose. "That bus smell sticks with you. Now might be the time to befriend a hose monkey."

She yawns deliberately, settling into the passenger seat. "Two birds, one stone. Douse the stink and make Swarek a little jealous. Maybe he'll get off his mopey ass and do something about it."

It's not the most touching display of sisterhood, but it's something. She figures Gail knows something about uninvited relationship gossip, everything that happened with Dov and Chris last year...

The radio crackles to life, a possible B&E at a pawn shop off Queen, and she's grateful for the interruption.

"1519 responding," Gail replies, switching on the radio. Her gaze flickers to Andy, and she shrugs offhandedly.

"People are starting to notice the weirdness," she adds conversationally, lighting up the cruiser. "Just so you know."

Master of subtlety, that Gail Peck.

Still: Andy's oddly relieved that it's Gail who notices. She's not going to muster transparent attempts at sympathy, and for that, Andy is grateful.

* * *

><p>It's a crime.<p>

Brand new - _well,_ gently used _- _mattress, memory foam and freshly laundered sheets, and she's still not sleeping.

It's almost laughable, really. All she wants to do _is_ sleep. Close her eyes and forget the world.

She can't.

Synapses fire and memories flood, bursting through her consciousness with startling clarity.

The seriousness in his eyes when he looks at her. Dark irises and an inscrutable expression, lines at the corners of his eyes like a roadmap. Tiny markers that convey just how much he feels. He's sweet and tender in the most unexpected and unpredictable ways.

The solid weight of his arm around her shoulders. Casual and friendly when they hit the parking lot of the Penny. Always paired with a teasing smile and a pointed quip.

The hot press of his mouth, insistent and the tiniest bit sloppy. She likes when he's not so sure of himself; when he's a little bit impatient and his kisses are demanding. Warm and unrelenting, the barest graze of teeth against her jaw.

(In the field, he's generally unflappable. Moments when he's not collected or composed? She savors them. Takes careful notes for future reference.)

She's been through breakups before. Set aside appropriate amounts of time to wallow and mourn. Hell, she's nothing if not familiar with the twelve-step program, given her family history.

Except...

It's different this time. Monumentally so.

After Luke, she need to hit something. Work out the pent-up frustration and anger, the bitterness that lingered in the wake of his infidelity.

In every way that Luke was simple, Sam is complicated.

She doesn't _know _what to do, how to deal. She's hurt and miserable, but this time, she feels the burden of responsibility, too.

(She doesn't _want_ to hit something. She wants Sam to pull her close to his chest. Hug her, breathe some courage into her. His embrace is tight, and the way he'd nearly crush her in his arms... Made her feel warm and safe, a whole host of things she'd never publicly admit. She's prided herself on independence, knowing her self-worth as an individual. She doesn't need a man to define her, that much is true, but Sam had this way about him... He acknowledged her strength and didn't label her emotional response as weakness. He saw it as a _part of her_, something that served her well on the streets.)

Codependency was never a thing for them. They were always a team, ideas and efforts blending seamlessly. When they disagreed and dragged their heels, she had enough faith in their partnership to voice her concerns.

She let it escalate last week and then freaked the hell out.

It's not surprising, really. Abandoning someone she loves - and dear god,_ she loves him_ - in a fleeting moment of anger and disappointment.

She really is her mother's daughter.

* * *

><p>She wants them to work.<p>

Wants it like she wants air in her lungs. Wants it like she wants her dad sober and child predators off the streets.

Her feelings are terrifying, no question. She feels more exposed, more vulnerable than ever. Balancing on a precipice, three seconds from free-falling without a parachute.

(It's different. She's never relinquished power like this to someone: Handed her heart over and told the person to have at it.)

He centers her, steadies her. A firm grip on her hand and the sweet brush of his nose, and her world slows down. Everything is calm and sure. The chaos doesn't consume her, and she feels like she's doing something right. That this relationship is real and honest and _right. _

The universe can nod and clap in symphonic approval because timing and sentiment are riding the same wave. _Finally_. Suck it, naysayers.

She sees it in his eyes, how much he cares. She would be a fool not to see it. He attempts to hide it, but one thing she's learned? He's not always the skilled UC operative he advertises. She lets it slide, because she knows why he's doing it. Giving her time, avoiding the _too-much-too-soon_ emotional onslaught.

He's being considerate, really.

But she sees something else... The apprehension. How careful he is sometimes, like she's a dormant landmine, one misstep away from triggering the detonator.

(More than anything, she wants _trust_. After everything with Luke... She wants her words to be enough of a reassurance. She may not have the best track record, but it's different with Sam. It's always been different.)

Every time he swallows a comment, falls back on silence and a careful lift of his brow, it eats away at her. Preys on some deep-seated insecurity. That after everything they've been through, he doesn't know her well enough to know she's sure of one thing.

Sure of _him._

She feels him slipping away. Time and space are cruel, familiar opponents.

She feels powerless to stop it.

(Now? The past tense cuts her like a fresh wound.)

* * *

><p>It had started a month ago, when Superintendent Peck pulled her aside. Routine visit to 15, <em>sure<em>, except Elaine Peck doesn't make routine visits. She always has a purpose, thinking three steps ahead while her colleagues debate the merits of immediate action.

(In short, a force to be reckoned with. A force that didn't make superintendent _accidentally_.)

She's in evaluation mode this time. Her tone was clipped and professional when she sought Andy out, but her eyes were calculating. She used all five feet, five inches to her advantage: Imposing posture and a probing, sweeping gaze that set Andy's teeth on edge.

First, she asks Andy about her five year plan. Where she sees herself. If Toronto will always be her home base, or if she's willing to explore other avenues.

(Andy can't shake the feeling like Elaine Peck is always watching. Gauging. Critiquing. A weird hybrid of every toxic stage mom and belittling sports coach she's ever met... Except more deadly. License to kill and all.)

_Elite Task Force_, she finally says. _A summer training initiative in Montreal_.

It was a surprise, all things considered. Coming off suspension and then probation, she could never have anticipated it. But Elaine Peck sees something and is not to be dissuaded. She wants Andy for the program.

Andy knows it would be a solid move, career-wise.

(She also knows it's not right for her.)

Her heart is in Toronto. She enjoys wearing the blues and walking the streets. Connecting to people on a personal level. Actively disrupting and suppressing crime, feeling like she's making a tangible difference.

She's not naïve enough to think her plans will _never _change, but right now, the program isn't for her. Her dad is finally starting to pull his life together, and she wants to remain an accessible system of support. She's _happy_, that's the kicker. Happy with work. With friends. With _Sam._

She thought mentioning it to Sam over dinner would be the end of it.

(She's been wrong before.)

He's weirdly insistent about the training, spouting off all kinds of statistics. Citing various Academy graduates, what they've done and where they've gone, doors that have opened because of task forces.

She humors him. Takes a stab of her chicken parm and promises to think about it.

* * *

><p>She doesn't know why she pushed back two weeks ago, let her anger bubble and boil over until she was lashing out at him.<p>

A long day and a short fuse, probably.

She can't shake this feeling, this inkling that he's not entirely sold on their relationship. He looks at her like she might run, and maybe he'd just rather she spared him the heartache.

It royally pisses her off.

(It's stupid. God, _she's_ stupid, but everything is veiled and hidden in his eyes, and if he'd just _talk _to her...)

Deep down, she doesn't know if he wants an out. Maybe this is his way of asserting independence, no-strings-Swarek, free to return to the freedom of UC work without the burden of a girlfriend.

Maybe not.

Maybe he really does think the training program is for the best.

But that, right there? She values his advice, it's true, but his opinions shouldn't define her course of action. He's her superior in the barn and on patrol, not in this relationship. If he stopped treating her like a rookie, maybe she'd stop acting like a damn fool.

(It's juvenile, she knows that. She also knows this issue runs a whole lot deeper. Trust is a two-way street...)

She's deferred to his experience and expertise in the field, time and time again. He taught; she listened. She trusts his judgment, but she also knows herself. Knows why this program isn't for her.

She wants to include him, make him a part of the decision, but she wants him to respect her judgment.

She hates feeling like he's put this relationship on _her_, sink or swim.

Nothing is ever easy with Sam.

* * *

><p>The worst part? Everyone <em>expects <em>her to run.

(What they don't know: She's never asked someone to ask her to _stay_ before. If that wasn't a hallmark that Sam is different...)

She didn't mean to get so angry. The allusion to her mom was too far, and she knows it. Knew it as soon as the words flew from her mouth. The tight twist of his jaw and the tense set of his shoulders were enough to stop her in her tracks, cut off any subsequent retort. Her throat had closed up, an unbidden lump staking residence...

(She was shamed into silence.)

It's not supposed to hurt this much. Like something's clawing inside her lungs. She's sucking in air violently, but it's not enough: The desperation doesn't abate. There's a tight, angry knot in the pit of her stomach that rolls and churns at the mere mention of his name.

(She wishes he had turned around. She didn't want him to walk away.)

_The house wins,_ she thinks. Everyone thought she would leave, and when he scooped up his keys and turned away, she proved them right.

She takes a hard look in her bathroom mirror. Studies the face she finds there.

Her fingers glide over her toiletry kit, deodorant and an extra toothbrush. Her razor and fruity shampoo and the foaming face wash, packaged neatly in the confines of a clear, plastic case.

It's the first thing she brought over to his house and kept there.

(When she took it back, she knew she was sending a silent message.)

She wishes she hadn't been so hasty.


	3. Your Scars Are Healing Wrong

A/N: Your feedback has been amazing, guys! Thank you! In the interest of spitting out these chapters, I haven't had a chance to respond to individual reviews like usual, but please know that I appreciate each and every one. Your comments keep me going!

Sam's POV again. Poor guy. Here's to turning a corner...

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Regina Spektor.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: [your stitches are all out, but your scars are healing wrong]<strong>

* * *

><p>What happens when normal is encumbered, hits a wall, and knocks you to the ground?<p>

That's his question.

_Universe, submit your theories._

He's half-listening to Frank, his eyes roving the room as the staff-sergeant hands out assignments. He rubs his jaw wearily, knowing instinctively where his gaze will settle. It's like he has an internal homing device, and all signals point to a neat brown ponytail and side-swept bangs.

Today, they're carefully pinned behind her ear.

(He's grateful for days when they're pinned back. Stops him from wanting to sweep his hand across her forehead every time they brush her eyes.)

He studies the dark tresses, the swing of her ponytail as she turns in her chair to say something to Epstein. Wonders briefly just how many minutes of his life he's spent staring at the back of her head. On some level, it's easier this way. She can't see him looking, and he can feign indifference at the appropriate time.

(_This,_ right here? This is why the universe frowns upon relationships with coworkers.)

He supposes the fallout was unavoidable. They were involved before every being _involved_. That's what happens when an eager young rook burns a cop from her own division.

He draws a breath, blowing it out slowly.

(He'd let her burn him three times over again if she'd just meet his eye.)

Since Oliver found out, he's been persistent. Nudging his shoulder, inviting him over for dinner or out for a drink, keeping his mind otherwise occupied.

That's how he found himself on the Shaws' deck last Tuesday, watching Oliver overcook steak kabobs. Five beers in and feeling particularly bold, Oliver had jokingly referred to the past month as "AA."

After Andy.

The slow rehabilitation as you worked rookie cops out of your system.

(He had the decency to apologize the next morning.)

Sam's not convinced he _can_ get her bright smile out of his head. That he even wants to.

(Her 3 a.m. giggles. Her bouncy runner's step. Her sleepy weight, cocky bravado, empathetic nature...)

Hell, if he's going to be a masochist, he may as well be honest about it.

_No going back._ That much is true. Once she's with you… No going back.

He's not keen on being caught staring, so he drops his gaze to the floor.

An unbidden memory flashes to his brain as her dark ponytail bobs in his peripheral.

* * *

><p><em>First day back from suspenion, and he hadn't seen her yet. Didn't want to make a point of asking Frank where she was. <em>

_(Conduct unbecoming is still fresh. Probably not a good idea for him to be pressing his staff-sergeant for information.)_

_When he exits the barn, he sees her leaning against the taillight of his truck, her gaze locked on him._

"_Hey," he greets when he's a few meters away. He's not sure how this reunion is supposed to go, what expectations she has, if any..._

"_Hey," she returns, straightening. "I, uh. Didn't see you all shift."_

"_Debrief meetings lasted way too long..." He breaks off, studying her. "You changed your hair," he says, the surprise evident in his voice. _

(He's not as obtuse as he seems, he swears.)

"_Yeah, well. Time for a change," Andy answers easily. Her smile is vaguely pleased, like maybe she's glad he noticed. Sweeping her hair off her neck, she fingers a tress lightly. "Know what happens after break-ups?"_

_His brow furrows; he's not sure where she's going with this. "I, uh... No. What happens?"_

"_Girls go out and get a haircut. New color, sometimes. Out with the old, in with the new," she explains with a shrug of her shoulder. "It's an identity thing." _

_She looks at him, an impish smile on her face. "Where have you been for all my play-by-play commentary on _The Bachelor_? Three weeks of bad TV, and this is what I figured out: They have post-break up transformations down to a science. Hosing those girls down until they're sober and smiling, then dying their hair."_

_He feels vaguely unsettled, an uneasy smile on his face. He needs to clarify something before he can begin to process the rest of this conversation. If break-ups spur makeovers..._

"_Callaghan?" he begins hesitantly, setting his jaw in anticipation of her response. _

(Me? he thinks, but doesn't say.)

"_Oh god, no," she replies immediately, her forehead creasing. "I was 'on a break' from the division, so..." She gestures to her head, her lips twitching with the trace of a cheeky grin. "New cut, new color. Darker, obviously." _

_An odd sense of relief washes over him. He wasn't aware of the tightness in his chest until something inside loosened, and his breath came more easily._

"_Besides," she adds, settling one hand on her hip. "Now I feel more like the badass cop I am."_

_Her expression is serious as the grave, but she breaks a moment later, grinning. "Your silence is your 'edge.' Gruff demeanor," she explains, taking a step forward. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. "People already think you're scary," she murmurs._

"_That right?" he asks, sliding his thumbs through her belt loops and tugging her closer. It feels good to touch her, something his hands have been aching to do all day. "You think I'm scary?"_

_She shakes her head emphatically, left to right. "You're secretly a pushover," she says matter-of-factly._

"_Huh," Sam muses, stepping forward and brushing his lips against her jaw. "Well. Only for one person, I think."_

_She smiles into his cheek, wrapping her free arm around his waist. _

"_I missed you," she says softly, pulling back slightly as her eyes search his face._

"_You have no idea," he answers steadily. With a grin, he slides his palm into hers, hauling her toward the front of the cab. "I like it, by the way. The hair."_

"_Yeah?" she prompts with a laugh. "Thanks. If you didn't..." She cocks an eyebrow, teasing. "Dealbreaker."_

"_Yeah, yeah, yeah._ _Now, uh..." He unlocks the door of the truck, ushering her inside. "If it's all the same to you, I think we should probably make up for lost time..."_

* * *

><p>He shakes himself, interrupting his suspended reverie.<p>

Dismisses the memory. Exhales deeply. Acknowledges the merits of self-preservation.

Better not to dwell, anyway.

(Still: She hasn't changed her hair. That means something, right?)

He doesn't know.

Veteran cop, fourteen years on the force, and he doesn't have a goddamn clue.

* * *

><p>Daydreaming during Parade? Least of his issues today.<p>

It never just rains, it pours.

He approaches the scene, the eastern ravine of High Park where they've been dispatched. The ground is soft beneath his feet, the result of summer showers, and he squints, making out the embankment where she and Epstein are surveying the land. There's a dip by the water, in which the battered body of a teenager is lying.

_Shit._

Any death is terrible – troubling – but it's always worse when it's violent. Always worse when it's a kid.

His hand slides gently across her waist, nudging her aside as he leans closer, peering into the ditch. She inhales sharply, and his reaction is instinctive. His eyes fly to hers. He drops his hand like he's been burned and takes three steps to the left.

"What've we got?" he says, averting his eyes.

Epstein squares his shoulders before clearing his throat, his voice low and serious. "Lacerations around the face and neck, cause of death undetermined. Officer McNally was the first to find him after canvassing the park..."

Sam's gaze flickers to Andy, silent and searching. He stops following Epstein's recap, his focus elsewhere for the moment.

It's the first time they've had unbroken eye contact in weeks.

"…and Homicide's been called," Dov finishes a minute later, looking at him expectantly.

He nods infinitesimally, swallowing hard and tearing his eyes away from her.

(She has a weary, defeated look on her face, lines on her forehead and dark shadows under her eyes. He feels that age-old constriction, long days in the field as her TO. Wanting to say something but bound by professionalism. )

_Not your place, Swarek_.

He hates not being able to say something.

(Five months with her, and he's allergic to silence, too.)

* * *

><p>Jerry talks him into a drink at the Penny.<p>

He's not at the top of his game, which is how he misses the scheme at first.

(He figures it out quickly.)

He wants to be pissed. He didn't force Jerry into anything, those months when Traci was back with Leo's dad. The Penny is a breeding ground for rumor; he doesn't need more of a headache because Jerry is an idiot.

(He's the bigger idiot, walking away from the best thing that's ever happened to him. Letting her run away and not going after her.)

He's too damn old. Too damn tired. He doesn't want to play this game, buying drinks and taking girls home from bars. He's past that point in his life where the idea is even remotely appealing: Laying on the charm, employing the dimples like a task force, one goal in mind...

It's empty.

(He's not interested in the thrill of the chase, the mind games and manipulation tactics. He hasn't engaged that side in years, doesn't like being a guy who uses a woman – even when she's willing. There's only one girl on his mind at present, and he's acutely aware of the hollowness of everything – _everyone_ – else. How other women pale in comparison, how he doesn't feel excited by the prospect of freedom or bachelorhood or whatever the hell you want to call it. Mostly he feels old and exhausted and fed up.)

Jerry chatted up a girl tonight, cute and blonde, before passing him the reins like every bad sitcom ever: "Have you met my friend, Sammy?"

He nods half-heartedly, hoping the motion carries enough casual disinterest to dissuade her. Takes a slow pull of his beer. Focuses on the dusty chalkboard behind the bar like it's a recent discovery, high scores for darts and fifteen year old drink specials.

The woman – _L-something_, Laura, Lola, Linda? – tries to engage him politely, asking questions. She falls within an age-appropriate bracket; doesn't have badge bunny written all over her. Even so...

(He's not interested. Not remotely.)

He swivels his stool toward her, keen on telling her so – Blunt honesty has always served him well, right? Plastering a smile on his face, he opens his mouth before movement catches his eye, a point past her ear. The entryway to the Penny.

His eyes slide over to the door where he meets Andy's gaze.

She looks stricken, slowly backing away before spinning on her heel. The expression on her face – It's raw. She averts her gaze immediately when she catches his eye, perhaps hoping he hadn't noticed her noticing _him_. The door slams with a dull thud.

He thinks about taking Jerry's boat shoe (seriously, how is he even_ friends_ with this guy?) and shoving it up his ass.

He begs off, drives home. Falls into a fitful sleep that night. Dreams about sad brown eyes and plaid shirts.

* * *

><p>She was the one who ran, for god's sake.<p>

_You drove her to it,_ his conscience niggles. _And you left first, so..._

I walked out the door so I wouldn't say something and come to regret it, he reflects.

_You walked out because you didn't want to talk about the bigger issues at hand._ _Where you're both going, and if your futures include one another._

I know my answer, he thinks immediately.

_Yeah, but were you ready to hear hers? Accept hers?_

(He's not sure when his conscience became so snippy.)

_So honest?_

He's out of answers.

He knows this: He misses her something god-awful.

* * *

><p>Regret ushers in second-guessing, overthinking, and what ifs - Unwelcome guests at his empty dinner table.<p>

(Everything is a reminder these days. She had this stupid way of folding napkins, little origami shapes when she set the table at his place... That's one difference between having a steady girl in your life and not having one: Cloth napkins.)

He smirks briefly, the motion unnatural after weeks of grimaces and forcibly casual apathy.

The next moment he sighs, one hand rubbing his temple as he pushes his plate away.

She's right on one count.

He was retreating. Well-intentioned or not, he was pulling away without explanation.

(Of the myriad ways this relationship could have ended poorly, he never envisioned self-sabotage as a possible scenario.)

He thinks about her first year on the force. If Andy seeking him out at every awkward turn was bad, Andy _not_ seeking him out is worse.

He doesn't know how to do this boyfriend thing. Knows less how to do the ex-boyfriend thing.

He wants to be supportive, but he doesn't want her overlooking commendation from the brass. He wants to lay it all out there, but –

(He's never been this invested. Not even close. She has the power to break him. He's a nearly unrecognizable version of himself, missing her.)

He's an idiot, he knows that. They have this chain of reacting, one angry comment on top of another, building and building until the walls come tumbling down and they're both broken.

(It's ridiculous. She's the one that gives him a steady foundation, and if she understood that...)

He loves her. God help him, he loves her.

* * *

><p>Everything he's ever wanted - ever <em>really<em> wanted - he's had to work for.

He doesn't know why he expects this to be any different.

Risk/Reward. The stakes are the highest they've ever been.

He just hopes he's not too late.


	4. Been a Fool and I've Been Blind

A/N: Once again, it has been a pleasure to read your reviews... Thank you so much! For the record: I too am ready for Sam to "go see about a girl." And no, I don't think we've seen the last of Jerry's handiwork...

Without further ado, here's Andy.

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Florence + the Machine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: [and I've been a fool and I've been blind, I can never leave the past behind]<strong>

* * *

><p>Week three.<p>

(She wonders when she'll stop using that night as a reference point. _Before and after_. A salute to time and space, really.)

She's settled into a semblance of routine. From an outsider's perspective, it seems like progress. Structure gives her a sense of purpose. Structure will allow her to flourish.

(Objectives and goals: What any driven, motivated copper should have, right?)

She could laugh at the irony: How ETF, a desirable career goal, led to the structural collapse of her relationship.

(_Well,_ maybe that's not fair. It was simply the trigger. The gun was already loaded.)

She feels tired. Exhausted by pretense and worn down by skirting the issues.

He hasn't sought her out. Hasn't looked at her in weeks. It makes her heart ache in the worst possible way.

* * *

><p>The week ends with Traci dragging her into the vacant D's office and studying her for a long moment. With a murmur of apology, she pulls her close and promises to stop by her apartment tonight.<p>

The decisiveness of Traci's response – sorting and labeling paperwork as she dials her mom; asking if Mrs. Nash can watch Leo for the night – it's a nice reassurance.

(She feels a strange sense of relief, surrendering her mask.)

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..._

The charade has taken its toll, and she doesn't want to pretend anymore.

It's draining: Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

Retreating into herself hasn't helped, that's for sure.

She wonders what it's like on the other side.

Wonders if talking to Traci is the first step.

Wonders, briefly, if _he_ has moved to greener pastures.

She misses the ease of laughter, the time with her friends, drinks at the Penny and jokes in the cruiser.

She misses the laugh lines around his eyes. The gravelly timbre of his voice on sleepy, lazy mornings. The way he drummed the steering wheel nervously when he took her out to dinner for the first time. His jacket and running shoes by the front door, his god-awful taste in music, and that stupid, teasing smirk when she'd catch him staring.

Mostly, she misses him.

* * *

><p>Watching her best friend bustle around the tiny kitchen, she's never been more grateful for Traci's maternal side. Calm, collected, pressing a cup of tea into her hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Both of them have early shifts tomorrow, so the wine is in the cabinet, a glass for another day.<p>

(She doesn't miss it. She knows what self-medication and a bottle look like: The memories are enough to keep a firm grip on her coffee mug.)

Observing Traci, she wonders what it's like for most girls. Calling their moms after break-ups; seeking advice and warm, reassuring words. She dwells briefly on the novelty, dismissing it quickly for her own peace of mind.

"So let me see if I have this straight," Traci begins. "For the past two and a half weeks you've let me blather on about Leo's allergies and science projects and _you haven't said anything_?"

Traci's tone is sympathetic, not accusatory, and her worried expression slices through Andy's heart.

"God, I really _am_ a rookie detective," Traci mutters, leaning against the couch cushions and propping her feet up on the coffee table. "My best friend goes through a break-up and I don't have the decency to notice..."

She laughs bleakly in response, Traci's words striking a chord. "Trust me, Trace, you are _not_ the one at fault here. I mean, I've had my share of screw-ups, but I think this one takes the cake."

(She feels a slight twinge of guilt for keeping Traci in the dark, and for that, she's sorry.)

The real reason she's avoided this conversation? Talking about it makes the whole scenario...

Real.

* * *

><p>Her conversation with Traci opens old wounds, but Traci's patience is a balm. She bears with Andy's halting, hesitant speech. Doesn't interrupt or push. Offers advice, wrapped in firm but gentle encouragement, when the time is right.<p>

(Does everything, in short, that a good friend would do.)

"_Andy," Traci begins gently, resting her palms on Andy's knees and crouching before her. She pauses, considering her words. "If you can't see the way that man looks at you..."_

"_I said awful things," she interrupts, the tears falling freely now. "And then I took my stuff and walked out. What kind of message does that send?"_

"_We all say stupid things when we're upset," Traci maintains, her voice soft. _She offers Andy a small smile, squeezing her knee. _"Last week? Leo called me a jerkface." _

_"Don't ask me to explain when kids got so fresh, but that point aside... We all say things we don't mean. Eight, twenty-eight... It's the same, usually. Just different – stronger – vocabulary. It's easy to fall back on something that's going to cut, to hurt, in the moment."_

_Traci spreads her thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart, her smile growing. "I was probably _this close_ to washing Leo's mouth out with soap, but I sent him to his room instead. Told him to think about what he had said."_

_Traci arcs an eyebrow in her direction, silently asking if she gets where this is going. _

"_You've spent enough time thinking about what you said. Punishing yourself," Traci says calmly, her expression serious. "Now you need to talk to Sam."_

_Her heart wrenches in her chest at his name, and she swallows hard._

"_You need closure, sweetie – Good, bad, or indifferent as his response may be. You want acceptance? You want to make your way through grief and anger, and finally get back to some semblance of normal? You need to talk to him," she repeats. "You can't play this game, replay after bitter replay of everything the two of you have ever said."_

* * *

><p>She feels lighter after Traci's departure – not <em>better<em>, per se – but lighter. Like some of the burden has been lifted. Realization dawns as it often does in the face of a good friend: She knows now why she's been reluctant to talk.

(She may have used Chris and Dov to justify her silence, but that excuse is piss-poor.)

The answer is simple, really.

With Luke, she didn't want people to know because she didn't want to be pitied. Didn't want to be that naïve young rookie whose fiancé slept with someone else. A victim. The poor girl who couldn't keep her life together and her man happy.

(She nearly barks out a laugh, the absurdity of the situation striking her.)

_With Sam..._

With Sam, pity wasn't even on her _radar_. Yes, she wanted to avoid gossip, but it wasn't pity she was afraid of.

If she started _talking_ about it, then she would have to _accept_ it.

And she...

She _can't._

She can't pretend like she doesn't want Sam to be a part of her life.

It's a monumental realization, one that causes her to close her eyes and bury her face in her hands. Everything is quiet and still in her apartment, and she feels... _Defeated._

The silence stretches: It's a reminder of her mistakes. A reminder of his absence.

(She messed up. Her biggest mistake wasn't walking out the door. Her biggest mistake was _not going back_. The next hour, the next day, the next week...)

Her eyes fill with tears, and she fists a hand against her mouth, swallowing a sob.

* * *

><p>Her conscience continues to prickle, a week and change later: <em>Talk to him. Talk to him. Talk to him.<em>

At some point, she should probably buy a clue.

The idea terrifies her; the fear nearly paralyzing. What if this is the two percent, the situation that – try as she might – she _can't_ talk her way out of?

(What if she tries, and that's _it_?)

Ninety-eight percent of the time, her mouth is her best weapon.

(It's always his words that resonate, try as she might to block them...)

The missing gap? That's where Sam comes in.

(Where he's always come in. _Missing gap_, for god's sake...)

Her conscience is definitely attune to her heart.

* * *

><p>It takes a warm, sunny day and her worst shift in months to kickstart the motions.<p>

She's paired with Dov and is suitably pleased: Dov can keep conversation flowing with little trouble, and he usually lets her drive.

(She'll take her small victories, thank you.)

When they're dispatched to High Park, part of a manhunt for a teenage boy, she doesn't anticipate the gravity of the situation. She should have known better, known to prepare herself, especially because he was a kid...

She didn't expect to be the person who would find him.

Her throat closes up, thinking about it. How her problems – her complaints – are small in number and form, compared to those of a grieving family.

(Reality has a way of elbowing into a cop's perspective, subtlety be damned.)

The universe has a twisted sense of humor, and naturally, Sam is the first senior officer to reach the scene. She's worked crime scenes with Sam before, and limited eye contact notwithstanding, they've been professional. She sucks in a breath as he approaches but releases it just as quickly. They've been doing this for a month now, and they can do it again: Specimens of protocol in each other's company, coloring inside the lines_, _his and her manuals...

(She isn't prepared for the physical contact, not by a long shot.)

She knows it was unintentional, the slightest graze of her torso. He was merely nudging her aside so he could examine the scene, but his hands...

They burn, warm and familiar.

She can't help the sharp gasp that escapes.

Their eyes meet, and he takes several steps to the left. His gaze swings to Epstein, and he asks for a rundown of the scene.

Dov is in full copper mode, grave stance and a solemn, assured tone as he recounts the details.

(If the scene weren't so troubling, she might tease him. She swears Dov drops his voice half an octave whenever he addresses Sam, honestly.)

She focuses on the wet earth beneath her feet, tries to concentrate on Dov's words. She hears her name, and suddenly, Sam's eyes return to her face, scrutinizing and assessing.

She holds his gaze, the seconds ticking by. She reads the concern in his expression; notes the unfamiliar creases around his brow and the tiredness in his eyes.

(He looks as resigned as she feels.)

She wonders how much of it is the job.

How much of it is _them._

(This life is too short, that's one thing she has always known. To spend your days unhappy...)

She's tired. Tired of this self-made circus, evasion and avoidance, misery as its ringmaster.

Not for the first time, she wonders how you can miss someone so powerfully when they're standing right next to you.

* * *

><p>It's a strange dichotomy. How one individual can go from being the person who knows you best - the person who challenges you to be your best - to being a complete stranger.<p>

It's a romantic break-up, sure, a physical split, but it's also the end of a partnership and a friendship and the lean slice of normalcy in her chaotic life.

She supposes that's why it hurts so much.

Sam didn't humor her or tolerate her: He _understood_ her. Took the time to sift through layers of emotional baggage and figure her out.

He was _invested._

She wonders why she's only seeing that now.

* * *

><p>She needs to apologize.<p>

She also needs to make Sam hear her. Really _hear_ her.

(She can't play this game anymore, second-guessing what he's thinking and where they're going and if it's all worth it.)

She wants him to trust her. She knows now she has to trust herself.

(She wants him to _want_ her to stay, that's the thing, and if she has to ask him a hundred times over...)

Hanging her uniform up, she changes into her civvies. She wishes she had more than a brush to run through her hair, but such is life: She may lose her nerve if she waits, and she hasn't come this far to give up now.

A text from Traci and a point in the right direction from Chris, and she finds herself in the alleyway of the Penny, pacing back and forth. He's inside with Jerry, that much she has figured out. It's almost enough to make her head home. If ever there were a place she _didn't_ want to confront him, it's the division bar.

(Although, places that would be worse: Emergency Care. Her dad's dinner table. TPS Internal Affairs. The universe has had a good laugh at her expense, so she supposes if she can finagle a meeting at the Penny, it might actually be a blessing in disguise. She can always suggest they move somewhere else.)

Her stomach is doing flips, airplane turbulence and a flutter of butterflies inside. Wringing her hands, she steps back before stepping forward with renewed purpose.

_Now or never, McNally. _

She doesn't see him at first, the glare of bar lights clouding her vision. The usual ruckus greets her, off-duty cops and a few college kids, badge bunnies in tight-knit groups and a crowd of old men in the corner, heckling each other at the dart board.

She stands in the doorway, her eyes narrowed as she scans the bar.

He's on his normal barstool, but...

_No._

(Blonde is bad, the proximity is worse, but it's his smile that's the ultimate blow.)

She catches his eye and drops her gaze immediately. Her body is on autopilot, and through no recollection of her own, she finds herself standing underneath the outdoor awning of the Penny, gulping lungfuls of air.

Every nerve ending in her body is awake. She feels like someone doused her with cold water, head spinning and hands trembling.

_Too late._

(It's a long walk to the bus stop: Humiliation measured in meters and regret her closest companion.)


	5. And If You Come Around Again

A/N: Wow, guys! Thank you AGAIN for your incredible displays of support and your patience over the weekend! Your feedback has been awesome, truly. As of today, I will be resuming my daily posting schedule.

This chapter is a little different: We're going to get a taste of both Sam and Andy's perspectives. The end is in sight (I promise not to drag it out indefinitely!) but for now, I hope you enjoy.

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Ingrid Michaelson.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: [and if you come around again, then I will take the chain from off the door]<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>SAM.<strong>

The thing about adrenaline?

It surges, and you're invincible. Kick the last 500 meters, capture the suspect, clean up the streets, one dirtbag at a time. Dupe the bosses and avoid detection until you've left your UC hole behind and can breathe, free and easy. Your body is a live wire and the thrill is the current, the spark that propels you forward.

Adrenaline drives you to make split-second decisions; resolutions when your heart is beating fast and your blood is pumping. Recovering from a nightmare, you see clearly for the first time in weeks: _Anything to restore the balance_, your body says, _Do what you have to do. _

It's why, waking to an empty bed at midnight, you vow to confront the girl whose actions have been cutting you up inside for weeks.

The downside?

In the morning, adrenaline feels a lot more like stupidity.

The rush ebbs, receding like the tide, and you're stuck where you were before.

* * *

><p>He doesn't want to avoid her, that much is true, but he still doesn't know how to approach her. The light of day brings with it clarity: In the cover of darkness, it was easy to imagine he could walk right up to her, that they could have a conversation like the adults they <em>are<em>, but reality sweeps in with crushing force and knocks him around a bit.

He's not a relationship savant; isn't winning any medals for communication. Doesn't know when, how, where you approach your ex (_god, what a word) _with the intent of fixing things.

Where do you start, exactly?

(_1505 to 1519. We need to talk, sweetheart.)_

He quickly realizes that this will be neither easy nor straightforward. If he had to guess, he'll err on the side of extremely painful. Of course, he can't imagine it will be any more _painful_ than this past month...

(Two nights ago he discovered that the TiVo was backlogged with shows she had recorded. The discovery followed a solid week of nudging from the universe: Him, dropping French vanilla creamer in the shopping cart without a thought until he reached checkout. The woman at the dry cleaners, back from maternity leave, asking if he was picking up for two. He can't sit on the Adirondack chairs on his tiny back patio without thinking there's something missing...)

Every possible scenario - her reactions, her response - runs through his mind, playing out like a bad movie. He wonders if overthinking is contagious, for the love of-

(Her backbone and temper go hand in hand, but it's one of the things he loves about her. She's fiercely loyal; will fight and claw for what she believes in. He hopes that even with this time lapse, she hasn't completely lost sight of _them_, that she won't give up the fight that easily.)

He's down but not out.

_Risk/Reward,_ he repeats, a silent mantra the entire drive to 15.

* * *

><p>It plagues him all shift, what he should do.<p>

He's not one for sweeping declarations. _Ring in a cupcake_ and skywriting the damn proposal_; _he made those jabs for a reason. Showy, public displays are not – will _never_ be – his speed. He's not about to stand outside her window or perform at the Division picnic; sing her Frankie Valli over the loudspeaker like that movie she loves so damn much.

(The amount of crap that's rubbed off on him since the Alpine, he can't even begin to fathom.)

He's not about to advertise his plan, either. If this doesn't… If she _can't…_

(He doesn't need Fifteen's finest to weigh in, that's all.)

He thinks about High Park, how despondent she looked when she met his gaze.

He wonders how things look from her perspective. What she sees when she looks at him, if the absence in _her_ life is anything like _his_ – acute and inescapable.

(Nash only found out last week. He knew the difference as soon as he walked into Parade: Her emotions telegraphed like closed captioning; the way her eyes narrowed speculatively, assessing.)

He wonders what that means, besides the obvious - Dissemination through word of mouth, more coppers in the loop. He wonders _why_ she didn't find out sooner, _why Andy didn't_...

He inhales sharply, annoyed. Every time he says _(thinks)_ her name, he feels a little stab in his chest.

(It was always the line, the invisible boundary between professional and personal. _McNally_ became an affectionate endearment, sure, but _Andy_ was a private term, the name he whispered against her lips late at night...)

Time and space: The changing spectrum of video rentals and grocery lists, the distance between surnames and nicknames, extinct plural pronouns and vacant patio chairs.

* * *

><p>The worst part?<p>

(Well, to be fair, there have been a lot of "worst" parts.)

He's spent a large part of his life as a skeptic. Happiness, love... It's fleeting. Too many bad people, motivated by power and greed. The practical solution is to put on the blues; combat evil on the street.

_Until..._

Five months with her, and his life was like a holiday special; all warm fuzzy feelings and him putting stock in happiness and love and the influence of one good person in your life.

(There's still a question of how it's all going to end; he only knows that if she wants the moon, if she says the word...)

He's an unrecognizable version of himself, missing her, but the thing he's starting to realize...?

He was a different version _with her_, too. A version that five years ago, he never could have anticipated: Minute changes to his demeanor and world outlook, changes that have profound effect on the way he carries himself, the kind of cop and friend he is...

He stops at the pharmacy on his lunch, handles a familiar bottle before walking to the register, resolute.

(It's a last-ditch effort, but it's something.)

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes after he clocks out, he's standing in the side hallway of the division, steps away from a familiar door. He watches Peck and Noelle exit, Peck with a low whistle and Noelle with a singular, raised eyebrow.<p>

(So much for not subjecting himself to Fifteen's gossip circuit. He can add skulking outside female locker rooms to his ever-growing list of stupid moves, indiscreet blackout makeouts and sleazy motel rendezvous.)

He waits until he's reasonably sure the locker room is empty. Breathes in slowly, and hits the swinging door with more force than he intended. The door bangs open, the solid _thwack_ of metal against concrete. He winces at the sound, wonders if he's given himself away before mustering up the words to face her…

(_Shit_, what's his lead off? He's been so fixated on getting here, he didn't waste time figuring out what he was going to say…)

There's only one thread running through his brain, one fear that motivates him.

_Don't walk away for good._

_Please._

* * *

><p><strong>ANDY.<strong>

She wakes up on Traci's sleeper sofa, every muscle in her back aching. Her bones creak, and she rubs at her eyes, her lids heavy with sleep. The scene from last night flashes before her eyes.

"_I'm going to kill Jerry," Traci says matter-of-factly. "Then we can stitch him back up, and you can have at him," she vows solemnly._

"_It's my own fault," Andy insists, her voice quiet. "What have I been doing besides moping silently? I could have fixed this weeks ago, and I didn't. He has every right to be out there, playing the field."_

"Andy_," Traci corrects with authority. "If there is one thing Sam Swarek has _not_ done since meeting you, it's 'play the field.' There is no way Sam was talking to some girl, unprompted. Jerry put him up to this, I would bet my life. Probably thinks he's helping him in some warped male way."_

_Andy winces, sinking back into the couch cushion. She's made it a point not to say his first name aloud in recent weeks, not if she can help it. The word slips easily from Traci's tongue, an electric charge that shifts something inside of her, haunting and fresh._

"_She wasn't even a floozy, Trace. She looked absolutely normally – from the back, anyway. Probably has her life together, perfectly level-headed and doesn't send men running."_

"_You know what happened last time Sam took off running?" Traci prompts, cocking an eyebrow. "You chased after him and caught him. And you were successful, _why_? Because you didn't give up."_

"_I burned him and I pissed him off," Andy replies with a scowl. "C'mon, Trace."_

"_And he still managed to fall head over heels for you," Traci interrupts, pursing her lips. "Are you really going to let one random woman stop you from talking to him?"_

* * *

><p>"Aunt Andy, you don't look very happy," Leo interrupts from his perch at the kitchen table, cereal spoon dangling from his lips.<p>

"Nah, I'm alright kiddo," she says, raising her eyes and forcing a smile. "Just a little sleepy, that's all."

"It's hard to wake up when you're tired, huh?"

"Mm-hmm," she affirms, stretching. Standing, she folds her blanket carefully and meanders over to the breakfast table. With a tiny smile, she plops on the seat next to Leo and ruffles his hair playfully.

"How are you doing this morning?"

"Good," Leo asserts. "I have gym today, so I'm pretty excited. We get to play kickball today."

"That sounds fun," she says conversationally. She stares at the orange juice container on the table before standing to retrieve a glass. "I wish I were as excited for work. I could stand to learn a few things from you, buddy."

"You should come to school with me, then," Leo says through a mouthful of Cheerios. "It's a good place to go if you wanna learn something."

"Yeah, I bet it is," she says softly, pouring a glass of juice. Sliding the carton back into the fridge she leans against the countertop, debating silently with herself.

"You need some advice?" Leo interjects, his spoon clattering into his empty bowl.

"You got anything good?" she jokes as she rubs her eyes wearily.

Leo nods solemnly. "Search your heart and find the courage to speak your mind. The good life awaits you."

With a beatific smile, he returns to his juice, taking a noisy gulp.

Her eyebrows skyrocket as she sets her glass on the counter. Narrowing her eyes, she stares at Leo suspiciously. "Oh, yeah? What does that mean, exactly?"

"I don't know," Leo says with a carefree shrug, unconcerned. "It's what my yogurt lid says." He flashes a grin again before hopping out of his chair. "Anyway, I have to go get dressed. You're gonna come with me and Mom when she drops me off, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'll be there," she calls after him, her mind working at warp speed.

"Cool!" Leo exclaims, his voice carrying from the opposite end of the hallway.

(Breakfast chatter is nice, she decides. She misses it.)

* * *

><p>Her outlook? Decidedly less cheerful when they arrive at 15.<p>

Break-ups _suck._

It's not the first time that sentiment has passed through her brain, not even the first time _today_, but those ten minutes of Parade have a way of getting under her skin. For those ten minutes in Sam's company, all she can think about is the literal and figurative distance between them.

(She's beginning to realize why people make such a big deal about colleagues becoming more than colleagues. This, _this, _is why she doesn't date cops.)

The morning is an exercise in restraint. Staying composed and professional, not letting personal observation affect her work demeanor… Not allowing herself to consider where and with whom Sam spent last night. She doesn't think it was Jerry's sleeper sofa, that's for damn sure.

(God, even in her own head, she sounds snippy and jealous and petulant. _Grow a pair, McNally. This isn't your first break-up.)_

These days, her conscience is more abrasively outspoken than sympathetic.

The shift is a long one.

(Every shift has been a long one since…)

_Since._

* * *

><p>Nine hours later, she bids Traci goodnight, promising to call her over the weekend. She's off-shift tomorrow, and she feels inexplicably relieved: No pretenses in an empty condo.<p>

Her mind wanders, and she swallows thickly. She wishes she could forget the image from last night, but she's pretty confident it will be burned into her retinas. For the foreseeable future, anyway.

(She's picked up a lot of habits from him, it's true. Successful compartmentalization? Not one of them.)

She thinks for a moment about Traci's words, about Leo's unintentional wisdom. She wonders if it's that easy, to simply persist, to keep after him until conversation presents itself.

(It's a lot to leave to chance, that's the thing.)

She doesn't know when she could talk to him. The Penny is out, _clearly,_ and she's not showing up on his doorstep, not after their history…

(Honestly? She doesn't know what she'd say to him, anyway.)

"_Most_ people," Noelle interjects, disturbing her internal monologue, "Assume that women are the ones that need verbal reassurances." Focused on unbuttoning her uniform top, Noelle doesn't meet her eye. If Andy weren't the only copper within earshot, she might think Noelle was talking to someone else.

Her gaze snaps to the senior officer's face, but Noelle doesn't acknowledge her response; she merely swaps her uniform for a loose blouse and continues addressing the great unknown.

"Truth is, men need it, too," Noelle says, slamming her locker door. Picking up her bag, she walks out, calmly and surely. "'Night, McNally."

So.

_Stunned_ is a good word, maybe?

She likes Noelle, sure, but she's never really cultivated a relationship with her outside of professional obligation. Traci is closer with her; Sam, too, but Noelle's words give her pause. _What did she...?_

(Sometimes the gossip hounds at 15 serve a purpose, she supposes. She'll be grateful for Noelle's pointed intention but feigned ignorance.)

* * *

><p>With Noelle's departure, the locker room is empty. For the first time, the silence seems companionable, familiar. It's worlds away from her empty apartment, the stale air that circulates in Sam's absence.<p>

(The next moment, her reverie is interrupted.)

The locker room door swings open, smacking the wall. She tenses at the sound, wondering if she's loitered long enough that a new crop of officers are showing up for their first break. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she prepares to shut her locker, be on her way.

The footfall stops her in her tracks.

(Shit, she _knows_ that gait.)

In the next moment, it's brown eyes that meet hers, a guarded but vaguely determined expression on his face.

Her heart jumps in her chest. Whether from joy or fear, she's not sure.

(This. _This_ is why you don't get involved with colleagues.)


	6. Confess Your Love, Your Folly

A/N: It's a delight to write for readers who are so enthusiastic and invested. Thanks, guys! Now for some story details: Every time I think I'm close to the end, Sam and Andy have a way of feeling/saying/doing more. We're finally making headway in this chapter, but there will likely be two more chapters before this fic is concluded. Thank you for sticking with me.

With each line break in this chapter, the POV switches between Sam and Andy.

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Mumford & Sons.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: [can you lie next to her and confess your love, as well as your folly?]<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hey," he greets softly. Shuffling his feet, he drops his bag to the floor and rubs the back of his neck. "I, uh… Hey."<p>

She stares at him wide-eyed before swallowing hard, hurriedly rummaging through her bag. It's a feeble performance, rendered futile when he considers her closed locker door.

(Still, he doesn't comment. Just watches. Waits.)

"Hi," she returns, her voice quiet and detached. She's the picture of professionalism on the outside, but he hasn't spent the past two years oblivious to her tells. They may be subtle, but they're there. He continues to stare at her, heated gaze and sweaty palms like she's the first girl to catch his eye.

(_On some level_, he concedes sardonically, _she really is.)_

She doesn't look him in the eye when she speaks; her gaze locked and loaded on the twisted blue metal of her locker. He notes the tense set of her shoulders, the rigidity of her spine.

"You, um," she begins carefully, "Probably shouldn't be in here. Best would have a fit if he knew."

"Hasn't stopped me before, right?" he says softly, letting the question hang in the air.

She swallows thickly, offering a brusque nod. "Well, uh, I'm on my way out, so…"

He doesn't know what he's going to say yet; only that he doesn't want her to leave. Without a second thought, he moves to block her path, solid weight planted in front of her. He studies her silently, considers his options.

She recoils, skirting around him, and the words slip from her mouth: "Um. Did you need something?"

(_You_, he thinks truthfully, but doesn't say.)

"No," he replies quickly, then blows out a breath, closing his eyes. "_Fu_- Yes."

He stares at his hands, trying to find the right words. _Theory_ versus _practical application_; it's like the Academy all over again. He knows what he _should_ say, just not how to phrase it. "Yeah, McNally, I wanted…" He breaks off, exhales harshly and tips his head to the ceiling.

Releasing a strangled laugh, he squares his shoulders and tries again. "_Andy,_ I want…"

(He wants it _all_ with her, that's the thing.)

"I want to talk."

* * *

><p><em>Were his eyes always so dark?<em>

When she meets his gaze for the first time, her stomach drops. That swooping, roller coaster sensation, the split-second when the rails start to dip and she's careening forward at astronomical speed, whole body trembling.

She struggles to control her heart rate, appear composed.

(She feels hot and cold, alternately nauseous and numb as the panic rises in her throat.)

_You're a professional, McNally. The least you can do is put on a good show._

(Good show, _right_. There's a whole troupe of acrobats in her stomach flying through a familiar routine, back flips and forward tumbles.)

She stares at the ground, fumbles with her bag. It's a transparent attempt to seem busy, but it's something.

She briefly considers sweeping past him – _if it's fight or flight, she'll take directions to the nearest exit, thank you –_ but he knows her too well: Has already anticipated her move, planting himself in her path.

So.

She'll find a different route, then.

She studies him briefly, assessing. He's fidgety, and that's something she thought she would never see. Cooler hand than Luke, Sam is usually unflappable… But apparently he's nervous, too. It makes her feel marginally better: Not _good,_ but better.

He wants to talk (_duh_); he doesn't have to say it. But he _does_, looking at her with those deep brown eyes, and all rational thought disappears…

"You have a nice time at the Penny last night?"

She cringes immediately, mentally face-palming herself.

(Dear god, she has no filter. She's said stupid shit before, but she wasn't provoked this time. He has to think she's some rare breed of insecure, jealous lunatic. Which, in all honesty, might be an accurate assessment.)

His face falls briefly before he recovers, impassive as ever.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out quickly. "Oh my god, I don't know why I said that; I'm so sorry. I shouldn't even–"

"No–" He cuts her off, refusing the apology. "No, it's fine."

"It's not _fine_; that was me being a jerk," she says, her hand flying to her forehead. "Why would I–? This is what I do, apparently. Make stupid remarks and say things I regret and... It's none of my business, and I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. Your free time is just that, _your _free time, and however you spend it is up to you; it's just been a long day and I'm tired and I know that's not an excuse but it's the only one I can give you, and I'm sor– "

"Andy," he interrupts quietly, halting her rambling. "Stop, alright? None of that."

She doesn't know what it is: The familiarity of his voice, the use of her first name, the way his words echo in the empty locker room... Maybe it's a long month of acting, pretending like she was fine when she wasn't, she doesn't know.

All of the sudden, something inside her gives. Shatters, actually. The gentleness of his tone, the pain in his eyes, the arm he outstretches before clenching a fist, dropping it limply to his side…

"I thought… I thought." Her voice cracks, her eyes closing involuntarily. "I don't know _what_ I thought." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

(She is. Sorry for all of it.)

* * *

><p>If the rambling weren't enough of a clue, he would just need to take a look at her face. The sorrow there echoes his own: Misery loves company, that much is true.<p>

"We need to talk," he repeats, his voice rough. His throat feels dry, scorched.

She nods infinitesimally. Her guard has returned, but she's practically humming with energy, eyes darting like a deer in the headlights. He wants to extend a hand, steady her. If he thought it would help, he would. If he thought he _could_…

(He doesn't trust himself to touch her, not yet.)

She clears her throat. Stares at her shoes.

"How have you been?" she begins weakly, kicking the floor with her heel.

(It's a paltry excuse for conversation, he's aware. But it _is_ conversation, so he'll pick his battles.)

He opens his mouth. "Uh… Okay, I guess. Been better, to be honest."

She nods silently, like she gets it.

_Astute, Swarek. You think?_

"You?" he prompts, running a hand through his hair.

(God, he's an idiot.)

She eyes him speculatively, shifting between her left and right feet. She offers a tentative smile. "You know, uh... _Okay,_ I guess. Been better."

(It's the first emotion in recent weeks he hasn't felt compelled to mask: The corners of his mouth curve upward, the tiniest tug.)

Her parroting leaves him vaguely... Hopeful? Like maybe she hasn't given up; maybe she's still holding on to the possibility of…

_Something._

"You want to–" She motions toward the bench, silently asking if he'd like to take a seat. He acquiesces, sliding across the faux-wooden finish, fingers brushing the cool laminate and hard lines.

"Uh…" He exhales, working the muscles in his neck as he rotates his head slowly. "I, uh…"

(It's _Andy_, for god's sake, he should be able to talk to her...)

The next moment, she straightens, reaching for her bag and slinging it across her back.

"You know what? We shouldn't do this," she interrupts abruptly. "This was a bad idea."

He watches her move, frozen to his spot. "Yeah?" he asks cautiously, gripping the side of the bench.

"We shouldn't do this _here_," she clarifies. Her voice drops to a whisper, and she inclines her head toward the door. "I can't. Not _here_. Please."

"Yeah," he replies immediately, bobbing his head in agreement. "Yeah, no, absolutely. You're right. Let's, uh. Let's find somewhere else."

* * *

><p>She finds herself in the cab of his truck ten minutes later.<p>

(What did she set herself up for? _Good one, McNally. Way to think ahead_.)

The air is cool, the chill of late spring after the sun has long set, but she feels warm. Heat rolls off him in waves, encroaching, intruding, leaving her worked up and lightheaded.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, he opens his mouth. "Is it alright..."

(He stops. Takes a breath. Tries again. She catalogues all of this, feeling every bit as jumbled as he sounds.)

"Can I take you to my place? We can, uh, talk privately there."

Her wide-eyed response is enough to have him trip over his words, hasty to explain.

"It just seems like a better alternative to, uh, a diner or something. I'll drive you home or call you a cab, whatever you're more comfortable with." He presses his lips together tightly, risks a glance at her. "Whenever you wanna leave, you just say the word…"

"Your place is fine," she says finally, quietly, staring out the window. "That's... fine."

(Fine?_ Fine. _Fake it 'til you make it.)

He nods in assent, grips the steering wheel tightly. He looks relieved, and she wonders if this is the first step, the journey of a thousand miles to reach normalcy.

(Then she thinks about that moment inside the Penny when she saw his smile…)

It's still raw. It still hurts.

(She's still largely responsible.)

She still misses him.

* * *

><p>He spends the first three minutes in the truck, wracking his brain for ideas: Where he can take her, where he'll begin to explain himself…<p>

Every spot has a memory, a thousand small associations, vivid and clear and fresh. The diner is too public, too noisy and vibrant and bright. Municipal parks are all closed. He's certainly not keen on walking into a bar right now...

Heart thudding in his chest, he finally suggests his house.

She agrees.

Reluctantly, yes. But still: She agrees.

All too soon, he's on a familiar street, shifting in reverse as he parks the truck.

(If only _life_ had a reverse gear; you could rectify all the dumb shit you said and thought and felt…)

He lingers by the passenger side but doesn't open the door. Gives her time to slide out; get acclimated. Spinning on his heel, he waits until he's sure she's following before he tackles the stairs.

(God, did he ever _not _anticipate this flood of memories. Climbing the porch steps is bad enough; they're not even inside yet…)

He fumbles with the lock, an obvious indicator of nerves. He wonders, briefly, if she's picked up on it.

(In the next moment, he acknowledges the probability: _Copper. Good one, too. Smart. Sticks with it._)

Flipping the hallway light switch, he steps aside. She follows, silent as the grave.

(It's unnatural on her, this silence, like a glove that doesn't fit.)

_Talk to me, sweetheart,_ he thinks. _Whatever you want: About nothing and everything, as long as you stay._

* * *

><p><em>Everything rides on this conversation<em>, she thinks.

It's terrifying.

She's overwhelmed by memories, standing in his hallway. His house is familiar yet foreign; this place that seems like a scene from another lifetime.

(The smells, the sounds, the pictures on the wall… It's all _him_, and it ignites something inside of her.)

"You want a drink?" he asks, slipping into the kitchen, attempting to ease the tension.

"No," she answers steadily. "No, uh. I'm fine."

(_Fine,_ there's that word again. Honest in nature, deceitful in practice. She's never been less _fine_ in her entire life.)

"Alright, then," he says uneasily, his gaze darting around the room.

(It's disconcerting to see _him_ so uncomfortable, especially in his own house.)

She waits until he moves toward the living room, then follows. With more composure than she feels, she takes a seat on his couch.

She wonders, briefly, if she should break the silence.

Time and space?

Always the hurdles.

* * *

><p>"You didn't change your hair," he blurts out, staring from his perch on the chair.<p>

(Is word vomit _contagious_? He's beginning to think so.)

His brain has seceded from his body, apparently; mouth given free rein to vocalize stupid, fleeting thoughts. It's a wonder he can even string a sentence together, the way she's been looking _(not looking)_ at him all night.

Her eyes fly to his, and she appears startled, then dumbstruck. "What…?"

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, switching to damage-control mode. "I don't know what…"

She looks crestfallen for a moment, swallowing hard.

"You don't?" she murmurs quietly, the question implicit.

(It's her tone that does him in.)

He's done.

Just like that, he's _done._

If this is the way it's going to end, so be it. No more games; no more pretenses.

* * *

><p>She's <em>through. <em>

All at once she wants to give up the charade: She's tired of being laden down with guilt and self-doubt, tired of answering to a conscience that won't let her forget him.

She can't ignore the pull, can't dismiss how badly she wants to fix this. No more veiled conversations and averted eyes and tip-toeing into Parade. If he's going to say something like _that_, then...

Then he's going to have to deal with her response, stripped of indifference or casual, compulsory displays.

* * *

><p>He stands abruptly, reaching for her. When she doesn't protest, when she doesn't move away or sink back into the couch cushions, he slides his hand over her wrist, circling it. It's the first time they've touched since High Park, and it awakens something buried inside of him.<p>

(Whatever else happened, they can get through it…)

With one light tug, she's standing in front of him, eyes full and lips pressed together.

(He loves her. _Loves_ her.)

"Andy, I don't want you to…" His voice cracks, his hands gliding up the length of her arms to rest on her shoulders. "This is… I've never _wanted_ something…"

He breaks off unexpectedly, his body trembling with unfamiliar levels of emotion, of heartache, of this inexplicable _need _for her to understand…

Closing his eyes, he leans forward, resting her forehead against his. "Andy, you know I'm not good with words, but you _have_ to know…"

(She _has_ to; he can't imagine what he'll do if she doesn't.)

She releases one low, shuddering breath, and the dam bursts.

Every emotion he's felt in the past four weeks is amplified, exponentially so. He wants to collapse on the couch, tell her how stupid he's been, that after everything with Brennan, he should have realized sooner...

He circles her waist. Burying his face in her hair, he feels an unmistakable lump building in his throat, catching his words and halting their advance.

* * *

><p>She's crying silently, warm skin pressed against the thin cotton of his t-shirt, muted sobs lodged in the space between her mouth and his chest. She hears only the sound of his soft murmur, gentle and reassuring against her ear.<p>

"I can't do it," she says seconds (_minutes?_ _hours?)_ later. Her voice is quiet, shaky. "I can't pretend like I don't care, Sam."

* * *

><p>He widens his stance, pulling her close, tight.<p>

(Not tight enough, not by a _longshot_…)

"I don't _want_ you to stop caring, sweetheart," he says softly. "_I_ never could."

* * *

><p><em>I missed you,<em> she thinks, clutching the fabric of his shirt. _More than you know. More than I ever thought possible._

* * *

><p><em>I don't want to let you go<em>, he thinks, trailing a hand through her hair. _Not now. Not ever._


	7. Up Above it All, Here's A Hand

A/N: You reviewers are champs! Thank you so much! And to all readers: Thanks for putting your trust in me to drive this bus to Crazytown and back. It's been a wild, emotional ride with Sam and Andy.

Once again, the POV switches in conjunction with the line breaks. There will be a short epilogue to follow.

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Lenka.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: [up above the world, up above it all, here's a hand to hold on to]<strong>

* * *

><p>She pulls back first, wiping her eyes and releasing the tight grip on his shirt. "Sam, look… There's a lot I need to say to you, and it can't wait."<p>

He steps back, staring at her for two, three beats.

"Okay," he says softly. "Just give me a few minutes, alright?" Scrubbing his hand over his jaw, he moves to the kitchen, picking up his bag. With his free hand, he grabs fills a glass with tap water and wanders back into the living room, passing it to her without a word.

She smiles gratefully, her expression weary but resolute.

He nods in acknowledgment before striding to his bedroom.

(She doesn't know if it's easier or harder like this. Now that's he touched her, now that she's admitted – publicly – that her indifference was a lie... It makes everything that's on her mind and in her heart difficult to vocalize.)

Vulnerability: She's never been very good at it.

Taking a slow sip of her water, she wills herself to think clearly.

_Universe, don't fail me now._

When he returns several minutes later, he has shed his leather jacket. He takes a seat on the armchair in the living room, gazes at her steadily.

She decides to invoke prudence. Moving away from him, she sits on the couch.

"'I'm sorry," she begins quietly, struggling to keep her voice even. "I'm _so_ sorry. For calling you selfish, for walking out on you without a word. That's on _me_, and I regret it."

She risks a glance across the room, locking eyes with him. "I don't expect you to just forgive me outright. I mean, I _hope_ you will, but I understand that one apology isn't enough, that I need to be honest with you, and that's going to take time. I was pretty shitty to you, and I…"

She trails off, attempting to collect herself.

(She doesn't want the apology to be the only thing that gets out; there's still so much to say.)

She takes a deep breath, focuses on her hands in her lap. "I want you to know… Sam, you _need_ to know... You didn't just step into this 'boyfriend' role, filling some void Luke left. You're not a replacement, or a rebound, or someone I was hoping to have a little fun with."

She holds up a hand, silencing the inevitable protest on his lips. "You probably know that, but I still need to say it, alright? This – us – Sam, it's _serious_ to me. You... You have been a part of my life since day one at 15, okay? And you've hollowed out this niche as my TO, and my colleague, and as a leader. And that grew into something more for me."

(She anticipates his movement before it comes, standing abruptly as he begins to rise from the chair.)

She maintains distance between them, walking over to the window. "I know you probably want to interrupt me, but if I'm going to say all this I need to do it in one shot. Just give me a minute, okay?"

The ferocity of her tone startles _her_, but he nods minutely, understanding.

She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and concentrating. "Sam, you were the one who taught me I can't use the uniform as an escape. I can't let this job consume me."

Spinning on her heel, she turns toward him. "I love being a cop. It's not a secret; you've known that since day one. To be passionate, to stay committed, I need to maintain balance." She opens her eyes, staring at him. "Balance in my relationships, and my work, and my _everything_, okay?"

"Okay," he echoes softly, and it's sincere, she can tell.

Her hands rattle, and she sucks in another gulp of air. "I'm _not_ going to take the ETF thing. When I say the program isn't for me, I mean it. It's not the right fit now, and maybe it never will be. I need you to trust my judgment. Okay?"

"Okay," he repeats quietly, his gaze never wavering.

"Okay," she confirms, nodding her head. Her shoulders sag, and she drops onto the far end of the couch.

(She'll probably think of eight other things she wants to say in the next minute and a half, but for now, it's a start.)

* * *

><p>He notes her tight grip on the glass tumbler. Knows how important it is for her to start this conversation. To say these things that have been weighing on her mind.<p>

(She's always been insanely strong. Seeing her fall apart, crying into his chest… It breaks him.)

He nods along with her points, listening carefully. Makes a move to touch her at one point, but she eludes his grasp.

(The answer is not as simple as twin "Okays," a complacent exchange between the two of them, but it's a step in the right direction.)

"Is it my turn now?" he asks mildly, his gaze fixed upon her.

She nods silently, and he takes a breath. Tries to figure out how to proceed without coming off like a total asshole.

He can't sit for this conversation. He surrenders to the urge to pace, hoping he doesn't look too wild-eyed and frantic.

"I want you to try and see things from my perspective, alright?" he begins, running a hand through his hair.

"You've been given this huge opportunity. Whatever else you wanna say about it, it's _huge_, and you can't overlook the fact that Elaine Peck singled you out."

He looks to her for confirmation, and she nods again. Her jaw is set, tight, but at least she's acknowledging the facts.

"I respect your judgment, Andy. And maybe I don't tell you that enough, now that we're split up in the field. You're smart and you're capable, but you can't deny that sometimes you're a little _impulsive_... And this nagging about Montreal was to make sure you gave it thought."

"But that's exactly what I mean," she interrupts, her spine straightening in a blatantly defiant move. "You're not my _life_ coach, Sam."

"Wait," he says, a degree too sharply. "You got to say your piece; now I need to say mine."

(So much for not looking like an asshole, then.)

He exhales harshly, mentally kicking himself. "I didn't mean to say it like that; I just–"

(He knows how she'd shine at a special forces seminar. Light up the damn room and inspire others with her enthusiasm, her commitment. It's part of what makes her so attractive, professional and otherwise. He's not trying to be condescending, just wants her to understand the extent of her capabilities, her career options.)

"Andy, I _know _what a great cop you are. I know that you'd excel in a training program. _Forget Peck_; I know that it's only a matter of time before _bigger_ bigwigs take notice." He pauses, dropping his gaze to the floor.

His voice is low but passionate when he speaks again. "When I told you to think about… When I tried to encourage you to take it…"

"Andy, I don't _want_ to ship you off to Montreal for nine weeks. But I also don't want you to _stay_ for me. If Montreal could open doors… I just meant that we have all the time in the world for us. Opportunities like this don't come knocking every day."

* * *

><p>It's his earnestness that kills her.<p>

He's right on most counts: It is a _huge_ opportunity.

(That doesn't mean it's a good fit.)

"But that's the thing, Sam," she blurts out, folding her arms over her chest.

(_God,_ it's like he's purposefully dense sometimes.)

"You're saying we have all the time in the world for us, for this. We _don't_ have all the time in the world, not in our line of work. Every day we put on the uniform, we're taking a risk. And as much as I love my job - and you _know_ I do - I'm not going to let it consume me. I'm not going to bring it home with me every night and base every important decision on whether it's prudent for my career. Keeping Toronto safe is one of my priorities, yes, but _my friends? My family?_ They're important too, Sam. I'm not going to forsake the people I love, get so caught up in this job that I lose myself..."

She swallows hard, willing the tears to stay firmly lodged in their ducts.

(She's not going to cry; she's _not_. She's not going to think about her dad, either.)

"When you wouldn't stop _insisting_… I know you meant well, Sam, but…" She looks around helplessly, willing him to understand. "It's _stifling_. It's like this utter and complete lack of trust, like I'm incapable of making my own decisions. And after everything with Luke, all I _want_ is for us to trust each other."

(He winces at Luke's name; she sees it from her peripheral.)

She takes careful note of his reaction, speaks urgently and steadily. "Luke is probably the last person you want to talk about, I _get that_, but I need to say this: If I hadn't been with him, if I hadn't gotten my heart broken, I wouldn't be approaching this relationship with the same kind of _seriousness_. Looking to the future and reevaluating my five, ten year plan. I wouldn't be so pissed off about a damn training initiative, for god's sake..."

"My _plan_?" she continues quietly. "The most important thing… You need to understand that I want you to be a part of it. But I can't – _I won't _– let you dictate that plan. And if you can't handle that, then we can't be together."

(She wants to be with him, she does, but if they can't work together…)

"You were shutting down, moving away when I tried to tell you why ETF wasn't the right program. You were retreating; I could feel it, and I didn't know _why_…You weren't letting me explain my reasons; you had it in your head that the only answer I should give was _yes_."

_Don't screw up this next part, McNally._

Rubbing her temple, she tips her head toward the ceiling. "I didn't know if you wanted an out. If this was your way of taking a break: Sending me to Montreal. And I probably should have had more faith in you, but _Sam_… You've been looking at me like I'm one step from sprinting away. Since day one, practically."

She draws a ragged breath, her next words coming out in a rush, frenzied. "And god, it's silly and stupid and maybe I'm too insecure, but when you look at me like _I'm_ going to be the one to break _your_ heart… It hurts, okay?"

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._

"And I know I've made mistakes, and I know I jerked you around for a while, and there were moments and times when I was a total witch to you; god knows, that whole mess with Luke before we got together… And I was _stupid_, alright?"

(She can feel her throat closing up, and her heart is in her stomach, and everything hurts so damn much…)

"But I _want_ this. I want you. And I want you to _want me here_, not look at me like we're thirty seconds away from total implosion. _I love you_, okay? And I haven't stopped – not when I walked out and not when we had to work cases together and not when I saw you in the Penny, even though I basically wanted to throw up – and god, Sam…"

(She can't stop them from pooling. Curses her weakness, her foolishness.)

"I don't know how to _fix _this," she finishes softly, the tears falling freely. "I don't."

* * *

><p>His head is spinning. Even for a McNally rant, this one's…<p>

Loaded.

(Her words come like gasps, and his chest tightens in response. He doesn't know where to begin, how to tell her… She's _so_ far off the mark.)

_Dictate the plan?_

He doesn't want to dictate any plan. If that's what she thought this was…

He's a goddamn idiot.

(He wants to tell her that he's spent the past month miserable out of his _mind_ – Angry and lonely and missing her like he was missing a part of his heart. That he's an asshole a lot of the time and he's not used to playing by the rules; that he flies solo and sometimes doesn't consider other people's feelings; that he can be infantile and petty and he's not used to having someone else's opinion mean so goddamn much. That he misses her and loves her and is used to masking insecurity, but it's a hell of a lot harder where she is concerned, and basically, he sucks at communication.)

He hangs his head, not sure how to translate those sentiments into actual words. Taking a seat on the coffee table, he shifts so he's sitting in front of her.

He pauses before raising his head, slowly reaching for her hand.

(Like he's exhausted every other option, and the only thing that can kickstart this monologue is her warm skin touching his own.)

She doesn't pull her hand away, so…

(Progress, right?)

"Andy," he begins carefully, leaning forward. "You were right about one thing. I _was_ pulling away, and I did a shitty job explaining myself."

He blows out a breath, and a shaky laugh escapes. "It's hard for me, letting people in. Letting them in and letting them _weigh in_. My track record with relationships is…" He pauses, considering. "_Terrible_, frankly."

He sweeps a thumb over the back of her hand, stalling. "I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life. I just… I don't want you to look back in ten years and regret _not_ doing the program. That kind of sacrifice has personal and professional repercussions."

(Bitterness will eat away at you...)

"Andy, if I can't even communicate about this…" He swallows hard, contemplating. "You're part of my world on both ends – On the job and off. And I've been so busy trying to navigate those waters and not screw up, to avoid putting you in a position where you're forced to chose between a job that you love and _me_, that I ended up pushing you away."

(Sometimes he feels a thousand years older than he is, really and truly.)

He meets her gaze, clasping her fingers tightly. "I'm sorry."

Pausing, he considers his words carefully. "I just… I don't want to be another _mistake_ for you."

(There it is: All cards on the table.)

_Well. All except one._

"Those times we talked around the issues and ignored what was going on? That wasn't just you, sweetheart. I'm not blameless, not by a long shot. And hell, if we're going to talk about the Penny, you may as well know that I don't know that woman's name and Jerry is a pain in my ass…"

He laughs uneasily, the pain in her eyes still a fresh memory.

His eyes are dark, his expression inscrutable when he speaks again. "I love you, Andy. And I _want_ to figure this out, okay? You and me."

* * *

><p>"Sam…" she begins softly, hesitantly. Fisting a hand in his shirt, she closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. "Um, okay. <em>Okay<em>."

_Pull yourself together, copper._

She slides her hand to his, twining their fingers together. "It's probably super-important that I get this next bit out..."

She stares at his chest, opening her mouth, then closing it again.

"You have _never_ been a mistake. And even if–" she breaks off, her voice faltering. "Even if we _don't_…"

Clearing her throat, she tries again. "Look, you've helped me grow as a person. Taught and led by example, and that's never… I won't ever consider that a mistake, alright? And _being here with you_… I've been fighting it for a month, but it's where I want to be."

Her chest loosens at the admission, and she persists. "I don't want to give that shitty night in the Penny one more passing thought, and as far as ETF goes…"

"My dad is finally starting to get his life in order, and I'm, like, _finally_ getting to know the streets of Toronto, and I… Sam, I _love_ that. I'm happy, and I'm not ready to give it up."

She focuses on the pattern of his floorboards, eyes sweeping across the ground. "And it's not all better; it _can't_ be all better after one conversation; I know that, but…"

"God, _you're not a mistake_. I want _us_ to try again. Please."

* * *

><p>They stare at each other for a long moment, apology written in their eyes.<p>

(Far from over, but the journey of a thousand miles...)

"I missed you," he says after a long moment, searching her face. He threads a hand through the hair at her nape, pulls her closer. The beginnings of a small smile tug at his mouth, and he directs the motion toward her cheek.

(It's familiar posturing, familiar words; an echo of conversation in the parking lot of 15 Division.)

Five months ago they were different people; had different ideas about what missing each other was.

"You have no idea," she returns quietly.

* * *

><p>The conversation continues on the couch. Soft whispers fill the room, emotional questions and responses.<p>

"Comparing you to..." The words jump from her mouth, and she swallows hard, pausing. "I was _so_ wrong; I never should have said you were anything like _her_..."

"Andy," he interrupts softly, squeezing her hand. "I _know_. You're not the only one who replayed that conversation, and I don't want you to think..."

"I was wrong," she blurts out, fast and insistent. "_God_, of anyone, I'm the one most like..."

"Andy," he repeats steadily, nudging her chin up to meet her eyes. "You... _You're not like her either_."

Closing her eyes, she leans against the armrest. "You don't know that," she protests quietly. "How could you?"

"I know _you_," he replies, his voice low and even. He keeps his gaze fixed on hers, waiting for the words to sink in. "And I know _that heart_, and I know how much that heart _feels_."

"We both said stupid things that night," he continues quietly. "You and me both."

She opens her eyes slowly, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she finally whispers.

"Me too," he echoes. "Me too."

* * *

><p>He wakes hours later, muscles achy and tight. He takes a moment to orient himself, rub the sleep from his eyes. It's dark outside, and he offers a silent salute to the universe, grateful for the weekend.<p>

(His spine is stiff, and the fact that he doesn't need to spend the next ten hours in a squad car? It's a welcome relief.)

He's not sure how they ended up in this position, exactly. He chalks it up to exhaustion, confessions about the last few weeks that spurred heavy, emotional dialogue.

It's not over; it's not finished by half, but they're moving forward.

(Somewhere in the middle, he imagines they just passed out. Mental, physical, emotional tolls.)

He's sprawled on the couch, feet on the coffee table, head tilted back onto the cushions. Andy is draped over his lap, head and arm resting on his thigh.

(It's not an unwelcome position after nearly five weeks of separation, but still: It's a couch, and he's too old for this shit.)

He nudges her awake, sweeping an open palm across her shoulders and shaking her lightly. "_Andy._ Sweetheart, wake up."

She shifts slightly, mumbling nonsense into his jean-clad leg.

(The apparel: Another reason they need to move off this couch.)

"What time is it?" she mumbles blearily.

"Late," Sam replies with a yawn. "Or early, however you want to skew it."

She forces herself into a seated position, giving him room to move around. "Did we just…?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He manages a half-smile. "I think we were both more tired than we thought."

He swallows thickly, staring at her mussed hair and sleepy expression. "You, uh… You want me to take you home?" he offers.

(It's a good will gesture: He doesn't want to force anything here.)

She shakes her head, still groggy with sleep. "No, um. No, it's late. Unless…? Unless you _want_ to take me home?"

(It's an out: She doesn't want to force anything here.)

"Not really," he says, shaking his head. His casual tone belies the relief in his eyes. "No, actually. Not at all."

Dragging himself to an upright position, he offers his hand with the intent of helping her stand.

Her gaze flickers between his hand and his eyes before she smiles once, slow and wide.

Clasping his palm, she allows him to pull her up.

(One foot forward. Destination: Normal.)

"Hey, um," she asks, following him to his bedroom. "Can I use your bathroom? I want to wipe off whatever makeup is left on my face…" She laughs lowly, the noise catching in her throat. "Whatever makeup I haven't _cried_ off, that is."

He gives her a small push in the right direction. "Go for it. I'll find you something to sleep in."

"Thanks," she says, squeezing his hand before dropping it lightly.

Her smile reaches her eyes, and it's a refreshing sight.

* * *

><p>She finds it when she steps inside his full bath.<p>

A fresh toothbrush, still in its clear plastic.

A small, blue hand towel.

Her facewash.

(The same brand of foaming cleanser she distinctly recalls shoving in her toiletry bag before she left. Same scent and same stupid pump.)

New.

Sitting there.

Waiting for her.

* * *

><p>He sees her standing by the doorway, the light from the adjacent bathroom filtering behind her.<p>

Her arm is limp at her side, fingers clutching a purple toothbrush.

"You…" she murmurs softly, her grip tightening on the toothbrush. Her mouth falls open, and she struggles to find the words. "_You_…"

His eyes drop to her fist, and he swallows hard. Gauging. Assessing.

"I just wanted you to come back," he says softly. "I figured… You'd need some stuff right?"

"But what if…" she begins hesitantly, the muscles in her throat working furiously. "What if I _hadn't_…?"

"I don't know," he replies, a breath catching in his throat. "I guess…I don't know."

Their eyes lock.

Stay connected.

Two, three, four beats.

She moves like lightening, leaping into his arms, the force knocking him backwards and nearly causing him to stagger.

"I love you," she murmurs against his ear, warm arms clasped around his neck. "I love you so much."

"I want you here to stay," he whispers softly, pulling her impossibly close. _"Stay."_


	8. You Take Me the Way I Am

A/N: Anyone else ready for some lighthearted fare? I know I am. This is, of course, the epilogue.

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed; it's been an absolute pleasure to receive such wonderful feedback. I hope you'll leave some parting thoughts - good, bad, or indifferent. Until next time - Happy reading!

DISCLAIMER: I own neither _Rookie Blue _nor the lyrics of Ingrid Michaelson.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue: ['cause I love the way you say good morning, and you take me the way I am]<strong>

* * *

><p><em>A few days later...<em>

"You ready to do this?" she asks with a laugh.

"Face the crowds in the arena?" Sam says, swinging the passenger door open and waiting for her to hop down. "Yeah. Just hope we don't get the thumbs down from the mob."

"We've already got enough of those from the universe," she concedes, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Coppers will be cake after this."

"I hope so," he replies with a wry grin. "Let's give 'em a good show, huh?"

She returns his grin, lacing their fingers together tightly. "This is nice, you know? Being back on the same team."

"Yeah," he says, keeping his tone light. Her grip is firm, nearly white-knuckled, but he doesn't mind.

(The opposite is true, actually. His hand in hers – There's a lot about it he doesn't mind.)

She looks up, flashes a soft smile. "We're a good team, you and me."

(Permanence. That's a thing he wouldn't mind, either. Not anymore.)

He arcs a brow, nudges her toward the door. "Well, then. Let's get in there, sport."

* * *

><p>Traci watches them enter, blows out a breath of air.<p>

"This almost blew up because of you," Traci says accusatorily, swiveling in her chair and eyeing Jerry steadily.

Jerry shrugs, unperturbed. "I was being proactive," he maintains, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Sam and McNally were going nowhere fast. I just gave 'em a little push."

Traci frowns, folding her arms across her chest. "If this was you _helping_, I'd hate to see what meddling looks like."

Shaking his head forcefully, Jerry points in Andy's direction. "He's crazy about her. Won't even _look_ at another girl. Hasn't for three years, ring on her finger or not."

"Yeah, well," Traci scoffs. "You hurt _her_. My _best friend_. You're lucky I didn't kick your ass to the curb."

"Hey. This ass is too well-dressed to kick to the curb," Jerry replies with a smirk. "You'd ruin the suit."

At Traci's unimpressed glare, he holds his hands up in mock-surrender.

"Alright, alright. I'm kidding. I didn't know McNally was going to show up. I was trying to give Sammy a push in the right direction," Jerry argues. "What's that line? _You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone_? I was just helping him realize it a little more quickly."

"You're an idiot," Traci says, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, but a loveable one, _Detective_," Jerry returns. "Most women would consider my attempt to reconcile them… Valiant? Romantic?"

"Asinine?" Traci interrupts, pursing her lips.

"As long as the ass looks good," Jerry says with a grin. "I'll let you weigh in with personal opinion later."

* * *

><p>"There they are," Oliver greets, clapping Sam on the back. "Was starting to worry you got lost between 15 and the Penny. Old age, brother. It creeps up on you."<p>

"Huh. Lucky I have you to remind me," Sam returns, sliding on to the bar stool. "In your finite and senile wisdom."

Oliver raises his glass, saluting Sam with a mocking smile before turning to Andy.

"McNally," he greets genially. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up. Keeps him young."

"All for the badge," she jokes back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Serve, protect, make sure Sam takes his calcium supplements, wears his bifocals."

"Think you're real funny, huh?" Sam says in an affectionate tone, wrapping a hand around her hip. He tugs until she's facing him, body bracketed between his thighs.

"Hilarious, actually," Andy replies, the curve of a smile on her lips. "All part of my charm."

Oliver observes them silently, noting their expressions. Sam can't keep the grin off his damn face, and McNally isn't faring much better. Zoe, of course, will be thrilled. Probably plan a Sunday dinner as soon as she gets wind of it.

"Alright, lovebirds," Oliver interjects authoritatively. "Enough with the nauseating displays. I'm not drinking a beer so I can throw it up later."

Still.

It's nice to see them happy.

* * *

><p>Headed toward the Penny's bathroom an hour later, Traci hears a familiar voice call after her. She freezes instinctively, slowly spinning on her heel, and waits for him to approach.<p>

"Nash," Sam repeats loudly, before turning the corner toward the female restroom. "Whoa, sorry," he says, extending his hands to avoid collision. "Wanted to catch you before you left."

"Well," Traci deadpans, arching a brow, "Definitely a good idea to intercept a woman on her way to the bathroom." Seeing Sam's perplexed expression, she smiles slowly. "Did you need something?"

He shakes his head, pulls himself together. "Yeah. Listen, uh. I just want to say…" He lowers his voice, running a hand through his hair. "Andy told me some of the stuff you guys talked about, and…"

He pauses, considering his words. "Thanks. For, uh, giving me the benefit of the doubt. Talking to her; you know… I, uh. I don't know how this would have ended, so…"

He blows out a breath of air. "Thanks."

Traci eyes him thoughtfully, looking vaguely surprised. "It's a good thing, what you two have," she says finally, shrugging. "I just want my best friend to be happy."

"Just don't mess this up," she continues, issuing a stern, warning glance. It's a look that has been honed with years of practice, clearly.

He nods in acknowledgment, the hint of a grin on his face. "Right. Thanks, uh. _Traci_."

Her mouth lifts in an unmistakable, incredulous smile. "You're, uh... Yeah. Yeah, you're welcome."

* * *

><p>Extracting herself from conversation with Chris and Dov, Andy works her way up to the bar. <em>One more drink<em>, she thinks, _then we'll call it a night. _

"Glad to see you back on track," Gail says by way of greeting, leaning against the bar while Andy orders the round. She eyes Andy coolly, fiddling with the straw in her drink.

Andy's eyes fly to hers, quick and assessing, gauging her sincerity.

"No, I mean it," Gail continues casually, anticipating Andy's suspicions. "And not _ironically_, if you can imagine."

Andy nods once, slowly. "Thanks, Gail," she answers quietly. "I'm glad, too."

Gail shrugs, twisting her hands around her cocktail. "Can't let mistakes from your past define you. When second chances appear…" Her gaze slides across the room, falling briefly on Collins before returning to her drink. "I don't know. Seems like you shouldn't deprive yourself of happiness, right?"

She shakes her head briefly, as if rousing herself from a daydream.

"Anyway," Gail resumes, transitioning curtly. "It's nice not riding with a sulky senior officer anymore. I mean, the cheerful, whistling, hugs-for-puppies-and-babies routine is probably going to get old _real_ quick, but for now..."

She trails off, motioning flippantly. "Well, _whatever_. Better than brooding Swarek."

Andy smiles, her tone sincere and deliberate when she speaks. "You're right, you know. We all do deserve our shot at happiness."

With a nod toward the bartender, Andy signals for a third beer.

Sliding the third pint in Gail's direction, Andy tips her head toward her table. "See you around, Gail."

* * *

><p>"Swarek," Dov says, watching Sam sidle up to Andy. "I gotta figure out his secret, man. Something about him…"<p>

"Yeah?" Chris says mildly, taking a slow pull of his beer.

"Total badass. Stealthy, mysterious, always moving, always gets the job done," Dov continues, narrowing his eyes. "Plus, look at what he gets to go home to: I mean, Andy is like, the total package."

Chris groans, pushing his drink away. "C'mon, man, don't talk about her like that. She'll kick your ass if she hears you. Or Swarek will, I don't know."

"What?" Dov says, unperturbed. "I just meant Andy is a solid catch." He pauses, considering. "Smart. Tough. Pretty. A dime, dude. Swarek is living the _dream_."

"Dream or not, Andy's like our sister," Chris says, furrowing his brow at Dov's observations. "Don't make _me_ kick your ass."

"Must be cool to live in his world," Dov persists, sipping his beer absentmindedly. Oblivious to Oliver's approaching presence, he points to Sam. "_Swarek_, I'm telling you. _Man's man_."

Oliver grins widely, catching Dov's comment as he passes by.

"You had a whole month to make your move, Epstein," Oliver chides, slapping him on the back. "Sammy's spoken for now. You'll have a hard time breaking them up."

"Yeah," Dov concedes, shrugging. "They, like, weirdly suit one another."

The three men take a moment to consider before Oliver nods in agreement, amused.

"It's nice to see them so happy," Chris comments quietly, watching Sam and Andy with a small smile. "It's like everything was off at 15 for a while, but now…? Now things seem right."

* * *

><p>"So. That wasn't so bad, huh?" Sam says twenty minutes later, letting the door of the Penny slam behind them.<p>

"People are just relieved they don't have to pick camps anymore, _Swarek v. McNally_," Andy explains with a laugh. She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "I would have had more people, you know."

"Is that right?" Sam prods, gazing at her skeptically. "I don't know; I've been here longer."

"Yeah, well," Andy scoffs, "I'm, like, significantly less _surly_, so…"

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," he replies, dropping an arm around her shoulders. "Cocky to a fault."

She raises an eyebrow dubiously. "Somehow, I don't think _you're_ the right person to give me a lesson about humility."

"Meh, you're probably right," he concedes, squinting into the distance. "I don't have to be apologetic about that, right?"

"Not tonight," she replies teasingly, wrapping an arm around his waist. In the next moment, her voice is decidedly more serious. "Enough apologies for a while, I think," she finishes softly.

He squeezes her shoulders reassuringly, considers his next words. "Come back to my place? I've got ingredients for some chicken pesto that will knock your socks off."

"Is that a promise?" she says, flashing a grin. Sliding out from under his arm, she plants herself in front of him, an expectant look on her face.

He pauses.

There's a seriousness to his demeanor when he answers.

"You want me to make promises, I'll do it," he murmurs slowly, his eyes boring into hers.

(She notices his tone. Would be a fool not to notice. She doesn't mind it, that's the thing. After everything... She doesn't mind it.)

"I just want you to be honest with me," she says finally, twining their hands together.

"I can do that," he answers, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her.

She feels the smile growing on her face, wide and bright. "Yeah?"

He nods agreeably, the corners of his mouth tugging. In the next moment, he spins her, backing her up against the cool metal of the truck bed.

"Honestly?" he says quietly, mouth against her throat. "Well, _honestly_... I think you're pretty. And smart."

"Brains and a body, that's what they tell me," she interjects with a laugh, tilting her head back.

"And a damn fine kisser, and when you do that thing with your tongue…" He trails off, nipping at the warm skin of her jaw. "Well. I don't _hate_ it."

"Is that right?" she teases, sliding her hands up his chest.

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles, resting his hands on her waist. "The way you wear the blues should be illegal, copper. That honest enough for you?"

"Oof. _Honestly?_" she mouths against his lips. "I think that was a _terrible_ line."

With a grin, she pushes him away, laughing. "You're so full of shit, Sam."

"Real nice, McNally," he counters, pinching her hip lightly. "You can fend for yourself for dinner; how's that?"

When she reaches out to him, he shrugs her off, waving his hand dismissively. "No, no, you made your point clear."

"No, c'mon," she says, tugging his arm. "Don't be like that. You're not winning awards for well-crafted compliments, but the intention is still nice."

Running her hands up the length of his arms, she bends her knees slightly, forcing him to meet her eye. "How's this? _Honestly_, I think you have more patience than you give yourself credit for. I think you're really sweet inside that tough shell, and I think I'm pretty lucky to have you in my life."

He returns her gaze, lifting a single brow, studying her.

"Not bad," he concedes, pressing his lips together. "Think you're gonna have to do better than that, though."

She shrugs easily, smirking. "I was on the spot. Did what I could." Threading their fingers together again, she tugs him closer.

"C'mon, let's go home so I can appease your ego," she says, still giggling over his wounded expression. "Kiss it better, how's that?"

"I think I could probably be convinced," he says at long last, bumping their noses, a lazy smile on his face.

She grins, ducking into his embrace. "Good."

* * *

><p>She doesn't need a sign from the universe, a green light and a blinking pedestrian signal to tell her: Move ahead, keep going, this one's a keeper.<p>

Sliding into the passenger side of his truck, she's grateful.

For friendship. For forgiveness. For the future.

_No going back._

Only forward.

**FIN.**


End file.
